


Home to Me

by jtph



Series: Home to Me [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Act 3, Angst, Canon Divergence, Canon Universe, Demons, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-12 13:15:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7936180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jtph/pseuds/jtph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been almost three years since Hadriana's death, time in which Fenris' quiet moments have been occupied with tracking down his sister... and with his slowly-eroding resolution to stay away from Hawke's bed since their one ill-fated night together. To all appearances, Danarius has finally given up the chase.</p><p>But Danarius is not one to let things go, and he has not been idle. At long last, the trap is finally ready.</p><p>____</p><p>When I was playing DAII, during Fenris' 'Alone' questline, morbid curiosity made me reload a save to check what happens if you give Fenris back to Danarius - and it seemed just so bizarrely impassive and out of character on Hawke's part, it instantly got my brain ticking over as to how it might be explained. This is what I came up with, borrowing a few bits of lore introduced in Inquisition.</p><p>This is my first fic in many, many years - constructive criticism is more than welcome!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tempted

 

The air cools above the city as the hazy light of evening dims into night, but in Hightown the paved streets and swathes of carved stone walls cast back warmth absorbed from the day’s blazing sun. It has been a long, hot day on the Wounded Coast, and Hawke is grimy and damp with sweat beneath his armour. He trudges up the stairs by the Chantry, headed for home and a bath full of hot water. But at the top he finds his gaze caught by the second staircase leading to the quiet square above – the square Fenris’ place overlooks. And even though they saw each other just the day before, it suddenly seems like too long; he can’t resist swerving from his path. He'll just stay for one drink, a tiny indulgence.

It has been nearly three years since Fenris had killed Hadriana and come to Hawke’s manor like a storm ready to break. He’d thrown himself into Hawke’s arms as though their touch was the only thing keeping him together – and then torn away again just as suddenly. Nearly three years of carrying a quiet torch for someone who may never be able to offer more. But Hawke’s learned to live with that. It means enough that they are friends, even if nothing ever changes, and he’s happier sitting in a run-down manor drinking wine out of the bottle with Fenris than just about anywhere else. If it also feels just slightly like torturing himself, well, Hawke has learned to live with that too.

He can hear voices coming from inside as he lets himself in. Upstairs, Fenris is speaking with Aveline. Though ‘speaking’ is perhaps an inaccurate term: Aveline, at least, is speaking, while Fenris is on the edge of shouting. As Hawke reaches the doorway the elf slams his fists on the table. “I need to know if it’s a trap!”

“I did as you asked, Fenris. Now it’s up to you.” Her brow furrows in irritation as she speaks, though she manages to keep her voice even. Seeing Hawke, she stands to leave. “You talk to him, Hawke. I’ve had my fill for today.”

 

_Outside the window, atop one of the thick stone pillars of a neighbouring building, a silent figure crouches like a gargoyle. Even if the occupants of the room thought to look, they would see nothing unusual; swathed in hooded black, their observer melds into the approaching darkness. Its eyes are fixed on Hawke, absorbing each step, each shift of expression, the shape of each spoken word. As it watches him, the shapeless form of its face begins to change, sprouting dark hair and a close-cropped beard, eyes rolling up out of the blunt flesh and shifting colour to gold-tinged brown. In the space of moments, it is a perfect copy of Hawke that sits in mute attention._

_Hawke is meeting with the elf. Fenris; white hair and gleaming white lines that breathe power. A borrowed mouth shapes itself around the name: “Fenris.” It sounds exactly as it would from Hawke’s own lips. The copy smiles in satisfaction._

_It is nearly time. This one, this would be a mask worth wearing._

 

“Come with me, Hawke. I need you there when I meet her.” Fenris fights to keep the pleading note out of his voice. He can face anything with Hawke at his shoulder, even Danarius. He holds Hawke’s steady gaze, willing the man to agree.

“Where is she?” Hawke asks, his expression unreadable.

“If we go to the Hanged Man during the day, she’ll be there. For the next week, at least.” Fenris looks away, lowering his head, but forces himself to make eye contact again as he goes on: “It would mean a lot to me. That’s all I ask.” But perhaps it is too much, after all. Even three years has not been enough to mend the damage Fenris did to Hawke, leaving like he did. Hawke is never easy around Fenris anymore, never fully unguarded. Not that Fenris can be wholly at ease, either. He had spent years of his life learning to fold away every emotion so far inside they had become almost alien; since his escape it seemed that he had mastered only anger. But with Hawke… _Fenhedis_. With Hawke, captivating and charismatic and so damnably understanding, all the atrophied feeling began to come back – joy and protectiveness and sadness and, yes, affection – and it was too much. Even now, it can be overwhelming.

“If you’re sure,” Hawke says at once, “then of course we’ll go.” He looks – concerned, a softness in his eyes. He opens his mouth as if to say something else, then closes it again and turns back towards the door. “You know I’m always here if you need me, right?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, already speaking again: “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to find myself a bath. I may risk putting you off my company forever if you get more than a passing whiff of me right now. I’ll be back in a bit – we can work out the details then.” Fenris wants to ask Hawke not to leave, tell him honestly that no amount of sweat and dirt could ever put him off, but he says nothing. He listens to the receding sound of Hawke’s boots on the stair, across the entryway, the door open and close.

He fought against his dependence on Hawke for years, angry with himself for allowing it to happen. Had he truly been escaping slavery, or just seeking a kinder master to follow? Even after their encounter, he willed Hawke to move on, to take up with one of their other companions, to do _something_ to sever the dangerous bond Fenris felt to him.

But Fenris has come to realise that there will be no escape from the way he is beholden to Hawke, no matter what happens. It is so simple, beneath everything, as simple as such things could ever be for someone like Fenris. He loves Hawke – he is _in love_ _with_ Hawke. So much it had felt unbearable. But, despite what he had attempted, there is no running from it. Once he understood that, Fenris’ resolve turned to doubt and now… in honest moments, he knows that his need for Hawke has long since erased any doubts. Now there remains only fear: of being rejected, of being a disappointment, of causing further pain. Fenris slumps down on the bed, bending his head forward to cradle it in his own hands. “Coward,” he tells himself sternly.

 ---

It’s been settled that they will go and see Varania the next morning; Hawke doesn’t want Fenris to torment himself with potential risks any longer than necessary. Besides, Hawke has a strong feeling that this meeting is not going to go well, and he wants to get it over and done with. Perhaps…

“Maker,” Hawke murmurs. He leans heavily against the back of his chair, glaring into the fire as though it has offended him. He has spent far too many evenings thinking about what might finally fix things between them. Back when Fenris had first walked out, he had let it go lightly, he had been understanding, but at the time he thought it a temporary setback. He was confident that eventually he could coax Fenris back to his side. Well, it had all been an effective lesson in humility, since they seem no closer to falling into bed together again. He smiles ruefully at himself, thinking of the surge of protectiveness that had come over him when Fenris mentioned the name ‘Danarius’ again that day. And the way Fenris had seemed almost unsure that Hawke would even help him. As if he could refuse, even if he wanted to.

Hawke stands again and is just about to go in search of some strong liquor when he hears the rap at the door. It’s late: Orana has long since turned in, and Bodahn and Sandal are away visiting relatives. The safe bet is that it’s some emergency for him to see to personally anyway. Some tiny, naïve part of him half-expects it to be Fenris himself, finally come to throw himself at Hawke again. He pads across the entrance hall and hastily pulls on his boots before he wrenches the heavy front door open. “Yes?”

The hooded figure hesitates for just a second, and then blows green powder into his face across an open palm. “What is –” The effect is so quick Hawke’s tongue goes immediately slack, his hands grabbing uselessly at the door frame. He blacks out before he even hits the floor.


	2. Thwarted

Dimly, Hawke can make out a rhythmic rushing sound. _Ssshk_. _Ssshk_. His heartbeat? His eyes flutter open, unfocused, as he frowns in confusion at the darkness around him. His senses are filtering back in, one by one: he is cold, especially down his right side, and now he can hear murmured voices and that rushing sound – definitely not coming from inside his own body. As his vision begins to clear he could see it is not in fact quite dark; there is a faint yellow glow coming from somewhere behind him, enough that he can make out the grey bark of tree-trunks stretching up past his field of vision. A forest… ?

Adrenaline shoots through him, and he is fully awake at once. He very slowly flexes his hands and feet, and is unsurprised to find that they are bound firmly. That insistent sound, heard clearly now, only adds to the gravity of the situation. Hawke had been a farm hand, so the swish of shovels through dirt is unmistakable.

There are also men’s voices, arguing softly.

“You should have taken care of him then and there,” One says, speaking with a slight Starkhaven brogue.

“And risk a blood trail? Evidence for that city guard bitch?” A low scoff. “She’s like a bloodhound that one.”

A grunt of assent. A third voice, lower than the others: “Locked up both of my brothers last year.”

As they speak and dig, Hawke takes stock of his situation. He feels feverish, and his limbs are oddly numb, though the skin of his face skins like a burn. He feels bruised along the left side of his body, and there is a sharp pain through his shoulder and upper arm: if he had to guess, he had been thrown into something hard at some point. Thankfully his right arm seems sound, and the thrumming fear pulsing through him pushes everything else into the background as he moves his mind to solutions. His belt knife is gone, of course, and a flex of his calf confirmed they found the slim razor he keeps slipped in his boot. They have been thorough. He moves one hand slowly up to the open collar of his tunic, careful to keep his back relaxed, and his lips twitch when he realises they have not been quite thorough enough. He squeezes at just the right spot in the fabric, and the sharp end of a tiny file tears through just enough for him to gently tug it out into his palm. He sets to work on the rope around his wrist, and silently thanks the Maker for Isabela – she had given him the idea when he’d discovered four of the bones in her corset were actually fine stilettos.

“Could’ve just throttled him,” the first speaker says stubbornly.

“He got a face-full of that Vint stuff – Maril breathed some last week on accident and slept a whole day and night. The Champion ain’t going to be a problem.” Something twists in the man’s voice as he goes on: “’Sides, I’ve lost enough friends and family to this bastard to fill a whole Chantry graveyard. He don’t deserve no quick out. I’m gonna _enjoy_ our little talk when we wake ‘im up.”

“Well it’s past time for him to disappear, now,” the man with the Starkhaven accent says grimly. “Don’t underestimate this one, Maker take his bloodhound.”

There’s the shuffle of moving feet and the thud of the shovels being dropped to the dirt.

Hawke tears through the final shreds of the rope around his ankles just as their attention turns to him. He is on his feet in seconds, swaying only slightly as his equilibrium adjusts. He flicks the file around to use as a makeshift weapon, shifting his weight as he works the blood back into his still-sluggish frame. “Yep, definitely past time,” he informs them with a grin.

They are clad in dark leathers and hoods – Coterie, at a guess. The closest swears in that Starkhaven brogue as he drags a knife from his belt. The other two are divided from Hawke by the gravesite, giving him a few extra seconds before they will be on him.

He trips the first attacker deftly, then pivots to drive his file deep into the man’s hand as he hits the ground. The man howls and drops his knife; Hawke snatches it up and spins to face the others. One of them is taller even than Hawke, and more solidly built; he carries a short-sword, and Hawke makes a mental note of his extra reach. They both run at him at once, but the bigger man is there faster, swinging hard enough to fell a small tree. Hawke ducks down and left under the sword’s arc and stabs the man in the side, once, twice, his arm almost a blur. He straightens and kicks out hard, driving the swordsman backwards into the last knife-wielding thug; both of them fall flailing into the grave behind them, a fine mist of blood spraying Hawke as the air is forced out of the wounded man’s punctured lung.

Hawke turns back to the first attacker, who has just staggered to his feet. A muscle leaps below Hawke’s jaw as he advances on the man, whose eyes bulge with plain terror. He lashes out wildly, and Hawke grabs him by the forearm, pulling him in hard just as he rams the bloodied knife home between two ribs. The would-be assassin’s eyes go wide, and when he lets go of his breath it is choking wet, blood bubbling out from between his lips. Hawke releases the dagger hilt and lets the dying man drop to his knees.

He turns back to the grave site behind him, but there are no signs of movement. He approaches, warily, to see both occupants of the grave are – appropriately enough – entirely dead. Pitched backwards against the earth wall with the hulking swordsman above him, the third assassin seems to have broken his neck.

Slowly, the adrenaline begins to fade, and the reality of what a close call it was creeps in around the edges. Hawke is hot and cold all over, and his stomach is churning – he lurches to the side of the small clearing to vomit, then wipes his mouth with the back of a shaking hand. “Shit,” Hawke mutters, crouching down where he stands before his legs can give out beneath him. Clearly that green powder was meant to keep him under for longer than this – they wouldn’t have left a rogue of any reputation unattended like that if they had any suspicion he might wake up – and even a quarter-hour more would have sealed the end of the so-called Champion of Kirkwall. A slow death and an unmarked grave. Fenris has said before that he should post guards outside his estate, and Hawke has always laughed it off – in retrospect, he wants to kick himself for being such an arrogant ass.

Then he realises another of his many mistakes for the evening: three out of three dead, and Hawke stuck in a Maker-damned forest in the middle of the night with not the slightest idea of which way Kirkwall or even a road lay. “Shit,” he repeats, scowling.

He stands up, slowly, and surveys his surroundings properly. The forest is old, moss-draped pine and sturdy oak standing in a bed of ferns and creepers; that immediately narrows down the possibilities for where he could be. They couldn’t have gone all the way west to the Planasene, so Hawke assumes they have taken him north, near Sundermount. There is a lit lantern hooked onto a low-slung branch near the grave, and two dirty leather packs tucked into the split bole of an ancient oak tree – but there are no signs of horses, which is curious. He moves across to take up the lantern with one hand so he can get a better look at the ground. Thank the Maker for growing up on the land, and days spent hunting nugs and pigeons. A few snapped fronds on a branching fern, some fresh soil where a clod of moss had been upturned, and he finds the trail that must have brought them here.

Setting the lantern back onto its makeshift hook, he dumps out the packs in the dirt and rifles through the contents. He throws a half-empty waterskin and a paper-wrapped package of flatbread back into one bag, along with a small vial of suspiciously green powder he is quite sure he has already been introduced to. Strapping the pack around one shoulder loosely enough that he could shrug it off if need be, he stands and turns his attention to arming himself. Laying one dagger aside, he jerks the second free from the Starkhaven assassin's ribcage and then sets about relieving the dead man of his knife belt so he can sheathe at least one of the blades at his hip. He keeps the cleaner blade in his hand, reversed; there is no way to know who else he will run into before the night is done, and how much warning he’ll have when he does. He would trade all the daggers in Kirkwall for a decent bow – he’s good with knives, but on his own against who knew how many he’d have gladly taken the advantage of attacking from distance and cover.

He grabs the lantern again and heads off along the subtle trail. Away from the clearing, the light doesn’t travel far – beyond it lies absolute darkness, and he can’t spot the moon through the dense canopy above. The lantern light flits over the rough boles of old growth trees, just enough to help him pick out the signs of passage in the ferns and bracken that lined the forest floor. After a short while, he can just see the whiter glow of moonlight through the trees ahead of him. A trail proper – even a road? He instantly extinguishes the lantern, setting it down as he drops into a crouch. He makes the final approach in stealth, moving from the shadow of one tree to another as silently as a ghost.

It is a logging track, wide enough for two wagons to pass abreast. The lack of horses at the grave site has laid out the obvious plan for him. He is sure the three he had killed weren’t the only ones involved; they didn’t carry him all the way out here on their backs, no matter how big one of them was. He's willing to bet that someone will come by this way expecting to retrieve three Coterie assassins. Instead, they’ll find Hawke, and this time he will be ready.


	3. Intrigued

It’s late afternoon when Hawke finally reaches the city gates, driving a battered wagon behind a solid draft horse. He hadn’t been so foolish the second time, leaving one terrified Coterie drudge alive to direct him back to town. And of course, they _were_ Coterie – no prizes for a correct guess there; they worked very hard and slit a lot of throats in their efforts to be the main murder-for-hire racket in Kirkwall. There had been one archer – watching the wrong side of the road and picked off with a dagger thrown from cover before he had a chance to get his bow up – and Hawke had taken the weapon with real relief. He feels much more himself with a bow at his back and a quiver at his hip.

He had been sorely tempted to dispose of the survivor once he had the information he needed, but the man was quite literally wetting himself with fear and for all Varric’s fanciful stories of him Hawke isn’t particularly bloodthirsty. He contented himself with taking the wagon and the weapons and heading for town, leaving the survivor to a very long walk and a chance to rethink some of his life choices.

The guards recognise him and wave him through the gates without question, despite the oddities of his situation. He’s been in odder, and most of the city probably knows it. But as the wagon rolls into the familiar streets of Lowtown, Hawke pulls up the hood of the bloodstained cloak he’s wearing. He’s not keen to risk another conspirator recognising him and making one more attempt on his life.

He is close to spent, nursing a shallow graze from a knife-point down his right arm along with the sharp twinges in his left shoulder. But a low hum of worry in his gut propels him forward: Orana had been at the house when they took him. He has to know that she is all right before he can let himself stop. He abandons the wagon not far inside the gates and heads up to Hightown on foot.

 

When he spots her, he manages to spur his tired frame to a jog. Orana is seated against a wall just off the main square of the Hightown market, which would be cause for alarm enough in itself. He knows she finds the city intimidating, and never leaves the estate of her own volition – especially on her own. But it’s worse than that, because Orana is quietly crying, and his concern about what happened while he was out of the way spikes. Oh, he will enjoy punching some answers out of whoever was behind all of this.

She does a double-take as he approaches her, her eyebrows twitching together in confusion and reddened eyes staring. “… Master?” She scrambles to her feet, executing a shaky rendition of her usual bow.

“Orana, are you hurt? Are they still at the…” He trails off as she continues to watch him with obvious trepidation. “What is it?”

“Master – have you changed your mind? May I come back?” She clutches her hands together, the picture of anxious anticipation.

“I…” He rubs his eyes with thumb and forefinger, frowning. He was too tired for this. “What? Of… course? I’m shocked to see you out here, honestly.”

“Oh!” She looks as baffled as ever, and might be about to cry again. “Forgive my faults, Master – I apologise for angering you, but when you told me to leave I was so frightened…”

“I told you to what?” Hawke asks, now as confused as she.

“This morning... you said to–” she pauses, swallowing past a hitch in her throat, “–to get out.”

He shakes his head slowly. “Something’s not right. Very not right.” He lays a hand gently on her trembling shoulder. “I haven’t been in Kirkwall; I was dealing with…” he trails off, realising that in her current state it was probably best to gloss over the details. “Dealing with some bandits, in the forest north of here.”

“But, Master, that can’t be possible!” she blurts out. “It was you!” She snaps her mouth closed forcibly, lowering her gaze to the ground.

“I believe you, Orana,” he says quietly. “Well, at least I believe it looked like me, whatever it was, and it doesn’t make any sense to me either. But look.” She turns her face obediently back up at the word. Her lip is still trembling, but she watches carefully as he holds up his hands for inspection, stretching out his arms to reveal the smears of blood and dirt on his hands and sleeves. He lifts his feet one at a time to show her the leaf litter and loam crushed into the soles of his boots.

She notices the tear in his shirt and the shallow scrape down his arm and lets out a little gasp of concern. “Master, you’re bleeding!”

“Oh, it’s… oozing perhaps, barely. Nothing to worry about. Now.” He takes her tiny hand carefully, enclosing it with both of his much larger ones. “Listen, Orana. My home is your home now, okay? It always will be. You will never, ever, have to leave it.” He pauses, then amends: “Well, you’ll never have to leave it after I sort out whatever’s going on there so we can actually go back.”

Orana’s eyes squeeze closed with obvious relief as she takes in his words, and she breathes out slowly. “You are so good to me, Master,” she says reverently. “I am so happy it wasn’t real.”

He pats her hand gently and lets it go again. “I’d better go investigate. None of this is sounding good to me. Perhaps you could go and call on Aveline at the Keep? You’ll be safe there.”

She nods, and then leaves with another bow – gracefully executed now and lower than usual. She glances back, once, as she turns in the direction of Viscount’s Keep, and Hawke makes a mental note to buy her a ‘sorry-my-evil-twin-threw-you-out-onto-the-street’ gift. 

For now, he heads back the way he had come, a fresh flush of energy driving him on now that the mystery is starting to unravel.

 

He smells Darktown before he sees it; garbage stewing in mounds, sweat, an acrid hint of old blood, and above it all the near-overpowering stench of human excrement. He keeps his hood up and his head down as he moves through the winding alleyways; at least he blends in here, covered in dirt and blood, and attracts little notice.

Outside the basement entrance to his Estate, he hesitates. Anders’ clinic stands right beside, the lantern gleaming in the permanent gloom of Darktown. It suddenly seems like a very stupid idea to be charging in on his own, especially after the day he’s had. He hasn’t the slightest idea what he could be facing – himself, apparently? He can't think of any likely explanations for that, but he has a bad feeling it’s going to be something to do with demons. It always seems to come down to demons, in this city. He should probably have gone via the Hanged Man to see if Isabela and Varric were there to lend a hand, but he doesn’t want to delay any longer now.

Hawke sighs audibly. Anders wouldn’t be his first choice for support, not these days. He’s a gifted healer, and a competent battlemage, and they had been good friends once. But of late the years of fruitless struggle – both external and internal, against the templars and the spirit fighting him for control – seem to be affecting him more and more. He always took his cause seriously, but when he wasn’t on that topic he had wit and even charm. Now it seems like all that part of him has been eroded, leaving only a sort of exhausted fatalism.

Hawke dithers at the threshold of the clinic. He can see Anders through the doorway, hunched over a table, scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment, papers and inkwells arrayed around him. Another copy of his manifesto, no doubt. Hawke turns away, a wry smile on his face. That settles it: he would rather go on his own and risk bleeding out in his own home than hear anything more on that topic.

Inside, Anders glances up at the movement in his doorway, just in time to see a retreating back in a worn cloak, the hood pulled up. Someone tall and solid, but so light-footed he doesn’t hear their steps. “Hawke?” he calls, frowning. But by the time he reaches the doorway, there is no one in sight.


	4. Threatened

Inside the dusty vestibule, half-blocked by a broken ladder and all manner of junk left to rot, Hawke carefully sets aside the crates and other rubbish covering the Darktown entrance to the Amell estate. It’s well-concealed even without the cover; heavy wooden door in a heavy wooden wall, visible only by the lock and the barest seam. The key is still on a chain in his wardrobe, but he doesn’t need it: Hawke’s never met a lock yet he couldn’t pick.

Through the door, up a steep, short passageway, and he’s beneath the Estate. There’s a ladder and a trapdoor, both risks for stray creaks and groans, and he is cautious as he levers himself out into the cellar. He takes the bow from his back and checks the string, steadies his hand on the grip. From here he will have to concentrate on absolute silence; economy of movement, the placement of his feet, searching with every sense for any threat of discovery. He steals through the cellar and upstairs to the kitchen.

Something is very wrong here. It is still broad daylight in Hightown, but the house is dim: the curtains have been drawn. Lit candles are scattered haphazardly over the surfaces and floor, wax pooling around them. The room is overly warm and stuffy, but at least having come through the cellars his eyes are adjusted to the darkness. The drawers and cupboards stand open, their contents strewn across the floor. That’s clearly where the candles have come from, too; he has to step around a crumpled heap of cloth wrappings and twine as he edges out into the hallway.

There are no candles burning here, but orange light falls through the doorway to the library, just enough that he can make out the impression of dark shapes scrawled on the walls from floor to ceiling. As he nears the library, he hears something that makes him stop in his tracks.

It’s his voice. Not exactly as it sounds from within his own skull, but the pitch and accent are unmistakable. Hawke can’t make out all the words; it’s something being repeated over and over – he hears ‘night’ and ‘choice’ and ‘count’. He edges towards the sound, listening hard, placing each foot toe to heel to avoid even the slightest scuff of leather on stone. The temperature rises even further as he gets closer, until it’s stiflingly hot.

All the curtains in the library are drawn, too, but the fire is an inferno, spilling out over the grate and halfway across the stone floor. The overgrown heap roars with flames that curve up over the mantle and scorch the wall. The room is in no better state than the kitchen, with books and papers scattered everywhere and reams of strange writing running up the walls. The vast fire casts a vivid orange light over the still-mumbling figure facing into it.

And now Hawke can see who it is, he goes cold all over, even in the face of the wall of heat blasting off that fire. He wants to run, and only years of training and practice keep him still and silent. They are facing mostly away from him, but the hair, the line of dark beard running across the jaw, the stature – standing in front of the fireplace is, to all appearances, Garrett Hawke. He is even wearing Hawke’s clothes, the crimson tunic seeming to glow blood red in this light. The fake Hawke is still speaking, quietly, in that unnervingly familiar voice, and hearing the words doesn’t make the bizarre situation any less threatening. It’s the same phrase over and over, repeated like a strange chant with minute variations: “with Knight Commander Meredith dead, there is only one clear choice for Viscount.” Hawke’s eyes widen in the shadows of the hallway: this is bigger than just him, then.

But he’s learned his lesson about spending too long listening to enemies give speeches about their means and motivations when he should be putting arrows into them, and there’s only one way this scenario can end. He breathes in slowly and turns his mind deliberately from the room and the voice, then nocks an arrow and brings his bow up. He aims, drawing back to his ear. Breathes out. Looses.

The arrow sprouts from the fake Hawke’s neck, and the hands, too-familiar, reach up to clutch at it. Hawke already has another arrow on the string, in the air, and this one pierces straight through the shoulder. The fake turns, hunched and still scrabbling at the shaft protruding from his neck, opens his mouth…

The wrenching, gravelly _scream_ that issues from that mouth is not human. Hawke startles and sends his third shot wide, into the fire, but he steels himself as he snatches out another arrow.

The fake runs at him, fast, too fast for someone with two arrows in them – a strange juddering run that also doesn’t seem to fit a human frame. The fourth arrow embeds itself in the fake’s stomach, but they don’t slow: there won’t be time for another shot, and Hawke drags the daggers from his belt just as the enemy is on him. The copy screeches again as it extends its hands like claws to swipe for him, and he jerks back sharply – because they are claws, now, and no longer human hands at all. There is blackish blood oozing from the mouth, so similar to his mouth, and the skin across the copied face is rippling and distorted, like something is trying to push up from underneath.

He has to get out of the hallway; he’s hemmed in and he doesn’t like his chances if this thing gets a half-decent grip on him. He feints and darts around it, making for open space. The thing is growing, changing; it lunges towards him, nails screeching against the stone wall, but Hawke is already through and whirling to slash at its exposed side. The dagger sinks in and catches, arresting his momentum just slightly, and another swipe of a viciously clawed hand catches him full across the gut. White-hot pain shoots through him as he dives clear, managing to roll out of it and up to his feet. He switches his second dagger to his right hand, clutching his left to his bleeding stomach. Maker, but it _hurts_ , a searing agony that is more than the tearing of skin and muscle.

The fake Hawke doubles all the way over, keening, and the mask evaporates. Sickly pink flesh, mottled red and roped with veins, ripples up the back of the creature and spreads. Its whole frame elongates, two pairs of arms stretching out like the branches of a leafless tree, and the hands become bony and blood-red. When it pulls itself upright again, the head and neck have blended into one blunt protrusion: there are no eyes, the area knotted over with livid scars, but the mouth is like a gaping wound lined with jagged teeth. Hawke backs away, holding his one dagger between himself and it.

It is a horror, but it is gravely injured; the arrows and dagger have been dislodged along with its shape, but the wounds are even bigger and black-red blood runs freely down its elongated frame. It lunges again for Hawke, but it seems unsteady and he manages – just – to dodge out of the way. White spots are growing and bursting in front of his vision, and he sets his jaw grimly: he is not going to stay conscious, so this thing needs to _die_.

The next time it lurches forward, he skips to the side and launches himself at its back, taking them both to the ground as he drives his dagger into its side above the other knife wound. It shrieks, thrashing almost hard enough to dislodge him, its four clawed hands scraping on the stone floor. But he holds on, wrenching the dagger free to stab it back into the creature again. Finally, with a blood-choked hiss, it collapses and goes still.

Hawke lets the dagger go and pushes himself away from the corpse. He rolls onto his back, gasping for breath; his stomach is _killing_ him – quite possibly literally. He puts both hands over the wound and winces, squeezing his eyes shut. Then he hears the most welcome thing possible in that moment.

“Hawke!”

He forces his eyes open again, tilting his head back until he can see the doorway. Anders, upside-down, stares across at him. And oh how Hawke’s estimation of Anders’ company has changed in a short space of time. “Anders, you are… a sight… for…” He doesn’t get to finish his sentence before he passes out.


	5. Gutted

Hawke groans as wakefulness returns again, bringing with it the throb of a fresh wound pulsing up from his stomach with each breath. He has a vicious headache. He rubs his eyes with one hand, grimacing. “All right, that’s it. No more losing consciousness for the day.”

“Why, are you making a habit of it?” Anders asks. “Oh, and, care to explain what exactly is happening in here?”

Hawke reluctantly drops his hand and forces his eyes open to find he is, at least, exactly where he was when he passed out. It would be a welcome improvement over last time, if it didn’t involve his home being trashed and some hideous demon lying in a pool of gore in his library. Two of the curtains have been yanked open, and the daylight hasn’t done much to improve the scene, but at least Anders has extinguished the bonfire that had been built up in his fireplace. The room is still smoky and overly warm. In the mound of ashes and half-burnt timbers Hawke can make out the charred covers of several books and what looks suspiciously like one of the legs of his armchair. “Demons,” he says with distaste. “What do they have against nice things, anyway? They'd be much less conspicuous without all the weird redecorating.” He turns towards Anders; the mage is kneeling beside him, hands held out palms down. The familiar blue-white glow of a healing spell envelops Hawke’s torso, emitting a faint rushing sound as it streams from Anders’ hands. But based on the quantity of pain, and the slight frown on Anders’ face, it’s not going as well as expected.

“The wounds are resisting healing,” Anders explains, frown deepening as the light from his magic expands and intensifies.

“Wounds, plural?” Hawke confirms.

“Yes, the nastiest gouges I’ve seen in a while.” Anders glances across at the demon. “Though I suppose that’s not surprising, looking at that thing. There’s some damage to your liver, so… a _lot_ of blood.”

“Wonderful,” Hawke mutters.

“Well that part at least I’ve stopped – but the wounds will only go so far as to scab, not seal over completely.” He gives a slight shake of his head and wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

Just then someone pounds on the front door, hard. “Hawke! Are you in there?”

It sounds like Aveline, and Hawke’s immediately worried for Orana. He tries to rise, but only gets to one elbow before Anders shoves him down flat, the blue of the healing spell flickering out at once. “Not a good idea!” says the mage, still pressing him firmly against the ground. “You heard me, right? The wounds aren’t sealed. If you move about you’re going to open it all up again.” Anders stands instead, just as the vigorous knocking starts up again.

While Anders goes to the door, Hawke gets gingerly back up to one elbow and peers down at himself carefully. It’s not a comforting sight; his ripped tunic is wet with blood, and his whole abdomen is daubed with it where the tunic has been pushed up out of the way. There are four ugly wounds wrapping from below his ribs on the right side to just beside his navel. It’s hard to tell how deep they run, as the edges have been brought in by the healing spell and the shiny red of freshly clotted blood is gluing them together. He decides he has complete faith in Anders’ judgement on this one, and lays his head back against the floor.

It is Aveline, and Varric in her wake, both staring at the chaos around them. “Yes, thought I'd try a different look," Hawke says flatly. "I heard smoking ruin is all the rage in Val Royeaux this year." Anders kneels back down beside him and resumes his spell.

Varric doesn’t even smile, and for some reason that’s almost more alarming than anything else that’s happened today. “Well, I see the Maker wasn’t messing around with his wrath this time,” he says, leaning casually against the doorframe. “He got on that fast.”

“I… what?” Hawke can’t even parse that comment at all.

“There were reports of screaming,” Aveline interjects. “And then I bumped into Varric on my way here, and well – what is all this, Hawke?” She plants her hands on her hips as she looks down at him, the blue of her eyes appearing even more intense in the glow from the spell.

Something seems off. Aveline is usually fiercely protective of her friends, especially Hawke. But she doesn’t seem concerned about him, exactly; instead she seems harried and conflicted. And what is Varric’s problem, exactly?

“I really have no idea,” Hawke says. “This whole day has been a write-off. Coterie, Tevinter poison, demons. I supposed I should be used to this shit by now.” He turns his head so he can look at Varric, raising a questioning eyebrow. “I can’t say I’d be so pleased to see you lying in a pool of your own blood.”

“Well, I haven’t decided to join the forces of evil,” Varric says bitterly, and Hawke feels like his stomach drops right through the floor. He forces himself to a sitting position, batting Anders hands away as the mage tries to intervene again.

“Varric, what the _fuck_ are you talking about?” he demands.

“How could you do that to him, Hawke?” Varric shoots back, anger all at once in every line of his body as he pushes off the doorway. “Why, because your tender feelings could take it anymore? I had to stop Isabela from coming because I couldn’t trust her not to straight up stab you.”

Confusion cuts straight through the outrage, and Hawke blinks at Varric for a moment, taking in what he’s hearing. Then cold fear rushes through him, rising in his throat like bile. “Fenris?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. He can feel a fresh trail of warm blood coursing down his body where he’s pulled at least one wound open.

Varric face softens from anger to uncertainty, seeming to recognise genuine shock when he sees it. “Yeah, Hawke. Fenris… how can you not remember? Shit… some kind of… blood magic?”

Hawke looks around the ruined room, and then at the demon corpse lying beside him. Realisation is still filtering through him, the back of his skull prickling. None of this has been about him; it has been far worse. When he speaks, he feels oddly distant from himself: “I was ambushed here last night, woke up in the woods to the north. The Coterie were already digging my grave. When I finally made it back, I found Orana out near the market; she said I kicked her out. But I hadn’t even been here. It made no sense. I used the Darktown entrance, and when I first came in this… thing…” Hawke looks across at the misshapen demon, with its blotchy flesh and impossibly long limbs. “It was me. It looked exactly like me, sounded like me. Someone wanted me gone, and this in my place.” His voice is starting to shake. The rushing chill is pooling in his very bones.

Anders touches his hand to Hawke’s throat, then forehead, a blue-white glow glimmering in his fingertips. “He’s in shock. He’s lost a lot of blood,” the mage says worriedly, looking around at the others. Then he faces Hawke again, his voice soft but insistent: “You need to lie down again… we can carry you to–”

“No,” Hawke snaps, pushing Anders’ hands away again. He looks despairingly at Varric. “Fenris – what happened to Fenris?”

The dwarf swallows, and averts his eyes. “The meeting with his sister was a trap after all. Isabela listened in.” He blows out a breath through his nose, looking up at the ceiling and then back to Hawke. “She heard you - well... not you, you - but. He gave Fenris back to Danarius.”


	6. Determined

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra-long chapter for you Zombrigit! Thank you so much for your comments and enthusiasm :) <3
> 
> I estimate there are about four chapters to go at this point.

_Fenris is furious, and frightened; the sight of Danarius has thrown him more than he expected, intruding into this place which has become such a cornerstone of his new life. Or perhaps it is that Fenris’ sister is not just a traitor – which he half-expected – but a power-hungry mage, trading his whereabouts in hopes of stepping into Hadriana’s shoes. And Hawke… something doesn’t seem right with him, hasn’t seemed right since they set out. There is a dark paranoia rising in Fenris, which he can’t – won’t – give credit to._

_“And this is your new Master, then? The Champion of Kirkwall? Impressive.” Danarius cocks his head, surveying Hawke with an air of preening arrogance. Fenris’ past and present, one loathed, one loved. But he knows Hawke will…_

_“If you want him, he’s yours.” Hawke says flatly._

_“What?” Fenris steps back, as though Hawke has struck him. He would have preferred if he had. Hawke couldn’t seriously…_

_“Interesting,” Danarius says, a small smile on his lips. “I’ll make it worth your while, of course. The power of the Imperium will be at your disposal.”_

_Fenris’ heart is pounding in his ears. This can’t be real, but it’s a real terror that has a stranglehold on him. “Don’t do this, Hawke. I need you,” he manages. He can’t go back; Hawke can’t send him back._

_Hawke’s face doesn’t register even a flicker of emotion. But when he speaks again he sounds – impatient. Irritated, that Fenris would even question this betrayal. “You’re on your own, Fenris.”_

_Fenris’ anger is reflexive, cutting through the shock. He frowns, then looks down and away from Hawke’s bland expression. He should have been on his own; he has given too much of himself to another, a weapon to be turned against him. “I suppose I should not be surprised,” he says bitterly. And he isn’t surprised – that could never do this sensation justice. The ground has dropped away under his feet, and he’s in freefall._

Fenris closes his eyes, but the scene is inside his mind and he cannot clear it away.

He kneels on the floor of the tiny cabin, shackled to the wall either side of him with lengths of chain too short to allow him to stand. It is dark, though by now it must be dark outside as well. He sways with the motion of the ship, his weight shifting from one knee to the other.

A heavy metal collar rests on his shoulders, curving up around his neck and lower jaw. It is a band of thick, lyrium-runed steel, held by chains that loop under both arms. It hums softly, and the faint blue glow it casts is the only source of light.

Danarius once displayed him like this in Seheron, mocking the Qun’s approach to magic. Fenris remembers the dainty jewelled rod that controlled the collar; Danarius twirling it between his fingers as he lounged in a litter, Fenris jogging awkwardly alongside the bearers as people stared. He hadn’t been angry for having that forced on him; he had worried over what he had done to offend his master, that he could have earned it. He had thanked Danarius for his kindness when it was removed, ever the dutiful slave.

Fenris has seen enough runaways and kidnapping victims beaten and manipulated and mutilated into obedience; he’s not naïve enough to think they cannot mould him into that slave again. The thought makes his blood run cold.

The collar prevents him from activating his lyrium markings, unless Danarius permits him to. He doubts that will ever happen again – and in truth, Fenris has no urge to try and use them. Hopelessness weighs on him more than any collar could. He sees Hawke’s face in his mind, unaffected by Fenris’ despair. How long had it all been an act? When had Danarius gotten his hooks into the Champion – and what had been Hawke’s price for this?

There is no use. He had foolishly built up his freedom around Hawke, a central pillar of his new life. But Hawke cannot be who Fenris thought he was – _a kinder master_ , Fenris remembers, and perhaps that is all it was after all. That freedom was only an illusion, and that life is crumbling away.

 

Hawke sits against the wall, waiting for Varric to return, while Anders tries again to heal the ugly wounds across his abdomen. The two gouges that had split have scabbed closed again, but the bands of clotted blood will not give way to intact skin. The mage is sweating as he digs deep into his mana.

“Stop, Anders,” Aveline says. “It’s not working.”

“It is… it’s just, not working all the way,” Anders mutters, frustrated.

“Then we’ll have to find another way. Don’t wear yourself out. I can only imagine what the next few days will hold,” she reasons. “And I doubt very much there’ll be time for rest.” Aveline, practical as always, but there are lines of worry on her face as she looks at Hawke.

He stares straight ahead, frowning slightly, oblivious to their conversation.

Varric comes back in. “I’ve sent runners to Isabela and Merrill. They should be here soon. And I’ve called in a serious favour.” He kneels down in front of Hawke, who seems to look through him. “I’ve got us a ship. They were taking a boat to Minrathous – with the ship I’ve got us, we’ll be faster.” His gaze shifts from one of Hawke’s eyes to the other, and he chews the inside of his lip thoughtfully.

“Fenris thinks I did this,” Hawke says slowly, as if in a daze. “Whatever that…” he grits his teeth, his hands flexing into fists, “ _bastard_ is doing to him, he thinks it’s because of me.”

“We’ll find him, Hawke.” Varric straightens. “We have one of the best captains the Felicisima Armada has ever seen.”

Hawke doesn’t respond. He wants to believe Varric, but he knows that wanting something to be true isn’t enough. He remembers Carver crushed in the ogre’s hands, and Bethany’s shuddering death rattle in the Deep Roads, and the lurching gait of his mother’s living corpse.

A pattering reaches Hawke’s ears, and he looks up just as his mabari trots down the stairs from the landing above. Henry slow his gait as he looks around the room, then he drops to his haunches and whines. “Henry!” Hawke calls, forcibly pushing aside thoughts of Fenris bloody and broken. Henry lets out a soft huff and trots to Hawke’s side, nosing him gingerly despite the eager wag of the mabari’s stubby tail. “Yes, boy, I’ve had better days,” Hawke admits, burying his fingers in the thick scruff of fur at the back of Henry’s neck. “I’m glad to see you made it through all right.” Henry woofs gently and licks Hawke’s face.

“What _is_ this thing?” Aveline asks suddenly. She’s standing beside the crumpled body at the hallway entrance, at the edge of the circular pool of dark blood. It is even more gruesome in death, the elongated limbs twisted and the sharp-toothed jaw lying askew. “We’ve fought more demons and abominations then I would ever wish, but I’ve never seen anything like this.” Henry shuffles back from Hawke, and approaches the demon corpse. He growls at it, sharp ears flattening against his head.

Varric looks across at it, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Yeah, I don’t even want to know.” He glances at Anders. The mage sits slumped against the wall next to Hawke, worn out. “Blondie’s passenger could probably tell you.”

Anders shrugs. “He’s… very quiet.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Unusually so, especially these days.” He closes his eyes, and is still for a long time. Finally, blue cracks seemed to fade in and out across his cheeks and hands. A frown flickers across his features, and when his eyes finally open again they gleam as blue as the light of his magic.

“You call me into the presence of that which I disdain,” the echoing voice of Justice booms, Anders’ face wearing a frown like thunder. He pushes away from the wall and climbs to his feet, moving to the far wall from the dead demon. “It is a creature of Envy, cowering and deceitful, lured by promises of glory to steal the Champion’s face. A repellent thing, even in death.”

Anders blinks rapidly and his eyes shift back to their usual golden brown, as the brilliant cracks in his skin close. He leans heavily against the wall behind him. “I’ve never known him so disgusted,” he says, his voice also back to normal and slightly amazed. “An envy demon? I read something about that, back at the Circle. Very rare, from memory –they don’t need to possess bodies, they can take on any shape they want. How did it end up here?”

“Justice said it was lured, didn’t he?” Hawke’s mouth twists bitterly. “I wonder who could have opened a little door from the Fade for that thing, and told it all about me. Given a group of Kirkwall thugs a ‘Vint’ poison to get rid of me and make way for the understudy.” Henry plods back over to him, laying down with his heavy body against Hawke’s leg.

“Convinced Fenris’ sister to turn on him,” Varric added, and held up his hands when Hawke shot him a sharp look. “Sorry, it seemed more pressing to get the whole crew here and work out the next step. But yeah – Isabela and Corff overhead most of the exchange. It went badly for Fenris from the get-go. His sister is apparently a mage – yeah, I can only imagine how well the elf took even that much – and now, I guess, she’s Danarius’ apprentice.” There’s a grimace of distaste on Varric’s face; he knows too well the sting of a sibling’s betrayal. He and Bartrand hadn’t been close, either, but it had completely blindsided him even so.

There’s the sound of running feet, and then Isabela bursts into the room. Her face is stricken, and her eyes rove around until they settle in turn on the dead envy demon, and then Hawke’s face. “I shouldn’t have doubted you,” she bursts out.

“You could hardly have trusted me over your own eyes,” Hawke allows, finding there's little room for anger alongside the despair.

“Well, I should have realised it must be demons or blood magic or _something_. I mean Maker’s balls, my own eyes watched you two mooning over each other every day, I should have…”

“ _Isabela_ ,” Hawke interjects, and if there’s a note of pleading in his voice and a pained expression on his face, she knows better than to comment on it.

Then Merrill comes, out of breath from her dash across town, her eyes already wet and her lips trembling. “Tell me it isn’t true!” But it’s clear that one look around the room has already confirmed Varric’s message. “Oh, Fenris,” she says brokenly.

Beside her, Isabela turns towards the wall, her own eyes suddenly too-bright and her lips tight.

But there is no time for tears – not while they can still do something to help. Hawke sets his jaw. “We have to get to the docks.” He looks at Varric again. “I hope this favour of yours is ready.”

 

The smell of salt, rotting fish, garbage and tar hits them as they weave around the warehouses of Kirkwall’s docks to the mooring point for Varric’s ‘favour’. They have taken barely another hour to scrape together the essentials for their trip and inform the necessary people about their departure – a letter has gone to Bodahn, and Orana and Henry are both to stay with Donnic – but Hawke feels the tension in his frame ratcheting tighter with every moment they delay.

It doesn’t help that he has no outlet for it: the urge to smash the barrels on the dock to pieces and punch his hands bloody against the wall is almost uncontrollable, but instead he can’t even help with the efforts to prepare. Worse, he has to be carried down to the docks on a stretcher by two of Aveline’s guardsmen. He knows he must do what he can to heal while there is time, because Fenris needs him as close to his best as possible; even walking would risk tearing the wounds open again. Still, it chafes to be rendered an invalid when so much is at stake, and he is used to being whole again at a wave of Anders’ long fingers.

Isabela has been subdued since they regrouped for the trek to the Docks, unsmiling and seemingly lost in thought. But when the ship comes into view, she stops mid-stride and lets out a sharp whistle. “That desire demon was true to her word after all, Hawke!” She doubles her pace as she sets off again.

Hawke cranes his neck to see the ship – and he can immediately see what Isabela means. It’s an immaculate brigantine, every timber gleaming and the hull dark with fresh tar. The sails and ropes seem brand new, not a patch or fray in sight anywhere. Then Hawke notices the sailors in the uniform of Kirkwall’s navy, the flag of the Viscount’s office snapping in the breeze on the main mast… and Bran Cavin scowling at them from the dock beside the ship. The seneschal's auburn hair is slightly mussed, and his colour is high, as though he has been in a hurry.

Hawke inclines his head slightly towards Varric, walking steadily beside the guard at the front of his stretcher. “Varric – this isn’t the Viscount’s personal vessel, by chance, is it?” Hawke asks softly.

“Well, as I said… it was a very big favour.” Varric shrugs. “And it’s not like there’s currently a Viscount to make use of it, anyway. Someone may as well, right?”

Isabela ignores the gangplank and takes a running leap at the side of the ship, grabbing hold of a loop of rope and pulling herself on board with a whoop. “Let me get a better look at you, my lovely!” she crows. Aveline levels her a withering look, and leads a hesitant Merrill across onto the vessel using the more traditional method. Bran sighs heavily, but his veneer of disdain cracks slightly as he takes in Hawke’s condition.

“Champion? I was informed you were to lead this very urgent expedition,” he intones dryly. “It was omitted that you had been literally dragged from a sickbed in order to do so.”

The guards set down the stretcher beside the ship, and Anders steps forward to help Hawke rise awkwardly to his feet. Hawke can’t disguise how painful that is, or how heavily he has to lean on the shoulder of the mage beside him. He has changed out of his ruined clothes – his wardrobe had been one of the few things in his home left mostly intact – but there is already flesh blood blotted across the side of his shirt. “There’s no helping it,” he says, managing to keep his breathing steady. “He’s taken Fenris.”

Bran glances around their number, frowning. “The elf?”

Varric interjects smoothly, stepping forward: “Yeah, he was pretty much integral to… oh, basically everything the Champion has done for Kirkwall thus far. Clearing the dragons out of the Bone Pit, killing the blood mages that were messing with the Templars… oh, and of course, saving the asses of every noble in Kirkwall when the Arishok decided to lose the plot. Fenris was there every step of the way.” His face turns serious, despite the levity of his tone. “We need him back, Bran. The Champion has done a lot for Kirkwall. Kirkwall can do this much for Fenris.”

Bran inclines his head. “I… don’t disagree, Master Tethras.” He gestures at the ship behind him. “As you can see. The ship has been prepared, and you have forty of the Kirkwall Navy at your service.” He sighs again, shaking his head a little. “Do try to return them unscathed.”

“They’re in safe hands,” Varric insists, as Hawke and Anders begin their slow progress up the gangplank. “Isabela’s the finest captain I know.” Above them all, leaning worrying far out of the crow’s nest, Isabela yells a hearty battle-cry into the sea breeze.

“Wasn’t her ship destroyed in a storm?” Bran asks coolly.

Varric scratches the back of his head. “I… may not know all that many ship captains,” he admits.

Bran gives him a long-suffering look as the dwarf follows the rest of them up onto the ship. “I feel deeply reassured.” But as he turns to watch them cast off, his expression is thoughtful. “Good luck, Champion,” he calls at last. “Do try to come back in one piece.”


	7. Prepared

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long chapter, though there may be a bit of a delay between this and the next... busy week ahead!  
> Apologies for all the talking in here, I promise the next one we're back to action stations. :)

Isabela climbs like a cat, and is just as unfazed by heights. She shimmies expertly down the main mast, leaps the last six feet, and turns towards the helm. An exasperated-looking man in an officer’s scarlet coat moves to intercept her, shaking his head. But she is in her element, used to none questioning her on water, and with the blessing of the Viscount’s office and the Champion there’s no real grounds to do so. She waves him off with a grin and a tilt of the chin, and he ends up trailing behind her as she heads up the steps to the quarterdeck and takes over the ship’s wheel. “Right!” she bellows. “Let’s see what you can do!” She shouts instructions as the ship creaks away from the dock; sailors weave around the deck at her order, adjusting the sails, stowing the gangplank, coiling up the tie lines.

“Excuse me...” Anders snags the elbow of one who is checking the ladder-like shroud angling up the main mast. “Do you know where we’re sleeping?”

The sailor stares at Hawke rather than Anders, openly awed, then does a double take over the visible bloodstains on Hawke’s shirt. “Y-yes, sir,” he stammers. “I’ll take you, s-sir.”

“Oh she is a beauty,” Isabela calls to Hawke as he and Anders follow their guide below decks. “That handsome elf of yours better prepare for rescue!”

A jolt of pain goes through Hawke’s chest at the words, entirely unrelated to his wounds, and he almost misses his footing. “He’ll be all right,” Anders says beside him. “He’s made of stern stuff.”

It speaks volumes about how shaken Hawke must seem that Anders, of all people, would try to reassure him. There is no love at all lost between him and Fenris.

They are led to what is clearly intended as the Viscount’s cabin, a needlessly decorative room for a fast sailing ship; thick woven rug on the floor, silver-trimmed looking glass above the bureau, the gleaming oak furniture accented with mother of pearl handles and inlays. The overall appearance has been slightly spoiled by the addition of two hammocks strung from the ceiling on one side of the main bed.

“Sorry you can’t sleep separate, Champion,” says the sailor, inclining his heads towards the hammocks. “We’re fully manned, so the crew quarters are at capacity. There’s four good bunks next door though, too.”

“Thank you,” Hawke says. “It’s no problem – I appreciate it.” And he does; the navy is apparently well-prepared to have a ship requisitioned on short notice and launched into the approaching darkness. He wonders how often the Viscount had to leave Kirkwall in a hurry before.

The sailor bows smartly and leaves them to it, just as the other members of Hawke’s party start to trail in. Aveline and Varric come first, followed by Merrill. Hawke sits – drops, really – down on the main bed, panting slightly as he waits for the pain to ease, as the others distribute packs and belongings between this room and the smaller cabin next door.

“Why isn’t it healing?” he asks Anders, frustrated again with his own uselessness. His other minor injuries had vanished in an eyeblink under Anders’ spell, the scrape on his arm sealing over and the ache in his shoulder fading out.

The mage straightens from where he’s stacking wrapped potions into a storage chest. “I’m not sure – I wish there was time to research this envy demon. My best guess is poison, but there’s nothing I can sense. Perhaps it is… I don’t know, a curse? Something on the demon’s claws?” He rubs the bridge of his nose, looking strained. “I just hope it heals the old-fashioned way, Hawke. You don’t bother to learn all that much about stitching and cleaning and all that when you can will something to heal.” His mouth twists ruefully.

Isabela comes just as they are finishing stowing their belongings, swinging her legs down the short flight of steps with both hands braced on the handrails. All her earlier reticence is well and truly gone, and she is more at ease than Hawke has ever seen her now that she’s at sea again. “Varric has done shockingly well, I must say. This sweet thing and I are already planning to run away together.” She grins wolfishly.

“But won’t the sailors be upset if you don’t take them home again?” Merrill asks, sounding dubious.

Isabela smirks. “Not once I’ve had a few days to bring them round to the idea. You’d be amazed how men enjoy having a confident woman over them.” She catches the hard look Aveline is directing at her, and sighs heavily. “Spoilsport.” Isabela sits down on the bed beside Hawke, one foot tucked underneath the other knee, and pats his knee. “She’s fast, Hawke, but then I knew she would be at the sight of her. I asked after the Tevinter ship, but apparently the magister arrived and left on a longboat – ship must have been out of sight. But I’d wager my favourite boots they’re in a big merchant galleon, slow and steady. There’s a lot of weather off the east coast of Rivain… plus magisters travel with slaves and guards and all manner of tat. They have half a day on us, but we’ll have the crew work split-shifts and keep full sail overnight…” She fell silent a moment, tilting her head as she thought it over. “We’ll catch them in about two days, maybe less.”

Merrill nods, then frowns as though she's just remembered something important. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Isabela – when we do catch them, what exactly happens then?”

“Yes, Kitten, well, we need to work that out together, don’t we? Where’s Varric gone off to?” Isabela leans forward to peer around Merrill.

There’s a chorus of boots, and Varric reappears, accompanied by two crisply uniformed officers in their scarlet coats. One is the same man who had been shadowing Isabela earlier, the gold insignia embroidered on his shoulder marking him out as a lieutenant. The other is slightly shorter but broader, with salt and pepper hair, a neatly groomed moustache and an air of unassailable confidence. He has even more gold embroidery at his shoulder and a gold-trimmed bicorn hat tucked under his elbow – the ship’s captain. “This is Captain Tremeer and Lieutenant Alwin, on whose hospitality we are trespassing,” Varric explains. “I thought it might be a good plan to include the ranking officers in our little chat.”

“Aw, must we?” Isabela mock-whines. Then she winks broadly at the Captain, whose face breaks out in an incongruous smirk.

“And here I thought we might work quite well together, ma’am,” he says, his tone carefully innocent, but after a breath he returns the wink.

She looks him up and down, and raises her eyebrows. “Well, Captain, you may be right.” She glances back to Merrill. “Normally when one attacks another ship at sea, they can see you chasing them down hours before you actually get there – so they have plenty of warning. Then you declare your intentions to take all their goodies, and give them a chance to surrender…”

The lieutenant clears his throat. “We are not Raiders, madam. We don’t take anyone’s… ‘goodies’.”

She barks out a short laugh. “Well I bet _you_ don’t, not with that sourpuss expression.”

Hawke leans his head against the wall behind the bed, grimacing. There’s only so much flirtatious banter he can stand, in their current situation. “Isabela, can we just…”

“Sorry, Hawke.” She has the good grace to at least look ashamed, and she adopts a more serious tone as she goes on: “The problem is, they have at least two mages on board – at least one of them very strong, I have no doubt. If we warn them we’re coming, we’re liable to be sunk with a fireball from range before we even get close.”

“You’re thinking stealth? Attack at night?” Captain Tremeer ventures, blue eyes sharp.

“I’m thinking stealth,” she confirms, flicking her hair back behind her. “Our lookouts will keep their eyes peeled; the instant we spot their ship we ease off and wait until nightfall to make our dash. Once we go, we keep everything pitch black, we can sail right in front of them and cut them off… not give them a chance to fire a single cannon. Or throw a single fireball, unless they want to burn their own ship along with ours.”

Aveline drums her fingers against the wall of the cabin behind her. “But what if they see us, when we first come up on them, before we get a chance to drop back out of sight?”

Isabela inclines her head. “Well, there is a small risk. But I can pretty much promise you any lookout they have posted is watching the water ahead, not behind.”

Lieutenant Alwin nods, a grudging respect for this interloper Raider captain dawning in his eyes. “We’re sailing from a safe port in Kirkwall towards open water and Rivain – Raider territory. They’ll be scanning the horizon for skull flags.”

“Oh, wonderful,” mutters Aveline.

“Don’t worry, Big Girl. We’ll catch them well before any raiders get a chance at us.” Isabela’s lips curve into a mirthless, predatory smile. She pats Hawke’s leg again before she rises. “We’ll get Fenris home to you yet. I have a good feeling about it.”

 

 

The door to the cabin rattles, and Fenris rolls to his knees before he’s even fully awake. He had been drowsing slumped on the floor, and his shoulders ache where his arms have been pulled against the shackles. The door opens on a brilliant point of light, blinding after hours in darkness. He recoils from it, squeezing his eyes closed against the glare, as booted feet sound on the boards. Before his sight recovers, he hears the rattle of the chains and feels the tugging on his arms as his shackles are freed from the walls, then locked together in front of him. Fenris grunts; the change in position hurts. He edges his eyes open slightly, squinting through his lashes; a lantern is the source of the light, placed on the floor beside the door, and he can make out two guards stepping back out of the room. They lock the door behind them, leaving the lantern – and a young elven girl holding a faintly-steaming bowl and a mug. She is clearly frightened, standing fixed as he surveys her through his narrowed eyes. Then she gives herself a little shake and slowly kneels down on the floor facing him. She has close-cropped brown hair and very dark, very large eyes; her limbs are thin beneath a dress too large for her and a stained apron so worn it is almost sheer. She lays the bowl to one side, the base rattling against the wooden boards as her hand trembles, and then holds up the mug towards him.

He eyes her, and it, with suspicion. “It is water,” she says hesitantly, her voice very soft. He doesn’t respond, still considering. She brings the mug to her own lips and takes a sip herself, then wipes her mouth on her sleeve. “Only water.”

He is very thirsty; it has been hours. There may be a drug or poison in the water – a slave being convinced to drink from the same vessel is little proof against that – but even if he refuses to drink they will get it into him in another way. She holds the water up again hopefully, and this time he leans forward to drink awkwardly as she tilts the mug for him. He drains it rapidly, his thirst demanding more with every swallow.

She sets the mug aside and lifts the bowl, taking a spoon from it. He realises she intends to feed him, and frowns. Danarius should not wish this. Fenris is being punished, will probably never stop being punished, and in the past that always meant reduced rations. That Fenris is to be fed this soon feels like a warning; that a slave has been sent to ensure it is eaten screams one.

She scoops a spoonful of food, and up close it smells appetising: fish, some sort of vegetables, the sort of plain fare cooked in one pot that was the mainstay of slaves in all Tevinter. But he doesn’t want to eat, because Danarius wants him to eat, and he cannot fathom of a way in which that bodes well. “It is good,” she assures him in that quiet voice, and eats the first spoonful herself.

He lifts his head, narrowing his eyes at her. “What is Danarius planning?”

She starts and nearly drops the bowl. "It is not my place to question Master," she whispers. She lifts the spoon again, her hand shaking.

“I don’t want it.” Fenris rocks back on the balls of his feet and propels himself to standing. His legs nearly give out, but he keeps his footing, shifting his weight as he glares down at her.

She is trembling all over, now, and her eyes dart between him and the door scant feet behind her. “Please, sir,” she finally begs. “My task is to give you the water and food. If I fail my task, they will punish me.”

Silence hangs heavily for a moment between them, but there is no choice but to relent and Fenris knows it. Whatever Danarius has planned for him, he will not make it easier on himself by seeing others suffer.

He kneels down in front of her again, and lets her feed him. The stew is good, but he has to choke it down like the bitterest medicine.

 

 

Hawke wakes when the door of the cabin clicks open. Merrill stands there, a tray in her hands. "Oh, I'm sorry Hawke.” She hesitates in the doorway. “I thought we should let you rest only Anders said you’ve hardly eaten or drunk anything since last night…”

He thinks for a moment, and realises the last time he had anything was the stolen water and flatbread he’d wolfed down on the wagon-ride back to Kirkwall. There’s the smell of something delicious wafting through the room from the tray she’s carrying, and his stomach choose that opportune moment to rumble audibly. “He’s right,” Hawke admits. He shuffles gingerly up the bed to lean against the headboard, hissing at the protest it brings from his wounds. “How long have I been asleep?” He barely remembers the meeting winding down and the rest of the group filing out of the cabin; he was in a daze at that point, his mind screaming out for rest.

“Not long, it’s barely gone full dark.” She wears a little frown of worry as she sets the tray down beside him; it bears an assortment of bread, cheese, jerky, chopped pickles and even a fresh red apple, along with a cup of water. “Why _isn’t_ it healing?” she asks at length, as he tears a roll in half and fills it with cheese and pickle.

“I asked Anders the same question. He doesn’t know – it must be something to do with the demon.” Hawke takes a bite and hums his appreciation. “Thank you for this, Merrill.”

“Oh that’s quite all right. Sorry it’s only bits and pieces – we sort of set out at dinner time, which made things a challenge for the kitche – galley!” she corrects herself sharply, which makes him think she’s already been pulled up on it at least once. “Do you mind if I take a look?” she asks, gesturing vaguely in the direction of his stomach.

He stops mid-chew, raising his eyebrows at her.

“Yes, I don’t do healing magic, I know – but the Dalish mostly don’t either, and I spent plenty enough years with them to pick up a trick or two!” she says defensively.

“I’m sorry… of course.” He finishes his mouthful and levers himself down the bed to lie flat again.

She lifts the hem of his shirt cautiously, her wince matching his as the fabric sticks to the wounds. She clucks her tongue. “No bandage, even – what is he about! Did he even clean this? I swear, Circle mages, if at first you don’t succeed just keep throwing more magic at it…” She stands and heads for the door. “I will get you a poultice and a bandage sorted for that – I’ve got some herbs and things in my pack that should hopefully do the trick.” She gives a firm little nod and disappears into the next room.

Hawke inspects the gashes himself. The scabs have darkened, and seem more firmly adhered, and there’s no new bloodstains on the fabric of his shirt. But the skin around the wounds is reddened and hot, and the pain is significant. He really hopes Merrill knows as much about this as she thinks she does.

He stares up at the slatted ceiling of the cabin; he knows better, knows it changes nothing, but he can’t help but imagine what state Fenris might be in right now. _Your elf_ , Isabela had said, but that wasn’t true. Fenris was his own man, if he would even be the same man after his experience; if they even succeeded in recovering him at all. Hawke’s appetite is gone at once, but he knows he has to eat. “Keep it together, Hawke,” he mutters to himself. “That’s the best you can do for him right now.”


	8. Sacrificed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may still be a little rough around the edges; I have spent much of the last few days kicking myself for getting stuck writing scenes that happen on boats. I know nothing AT ALL about boats except what Google can tell me. Damn you boooaats! *shakes fist*  
> Also we've gone from wall of dialogue to EVERYTHING HAPPENING ALL AT ONCE so please let me know if you spot any continuity errors or grammatical weirdness.  
> Thank you very much for reading! :)

Two days later, the sun is drifting slowly down towards the horizon again behind them, and Hawke is above decks for the first time since boarding the ship. He and Isabela work through a basic knife sequence, the slanting sunlight flashing off their blades. The rocky cliffs of the Ostwick peninsula are to port, sheltering Ostwick proper from the ocean wind whipping across the deck and spurring the ship forward.

They all know they must be drawing close. There is a tension in the air as the sailors go about their tasks; men glance towards the bow as if they might catch sight of the ship ahead before even the crow’s nest, and there is little of the usual idle conversation.

Merrill and Anders’ combined efforts – potions, poultices, spells, bandages and two days of very strictly enforced bed rest – have made a big difference to Hawke’s wounds: the scabs on all four gouges have hardened and thinned, and the skin surrounding them has lost its red tinge. The initial gripping pain has faded to an insistent, itchy ache. And with the inevitable battle fast approaching, even his zealous carers have allowed that he can no longer languish in the cabin.

Isabela and Hawke mirror one another as they move through the dance-like sequence: lean into a left hand slash, reverse the grip as they drop to the floor, pivot and stab up and right, straightening to sweep around. This was how she kept her skills sharp at sea, at times when it wasn’t safe to spar, and over the years she and Hawke have devised more patterns together. This one he knows well enough that his body flows through the motions of its own accord, and he can ignore the pull of his wounds as he lunges and turns and cuts the air.

As they finish, four knives slashing out horizontally through the air in front of them, Hawke feels more himself than he has since hearing Fenris was gone. His heartrate is up and there’s sweat on his skin, chilled by the rushing wind, and an iron determination has gripped him. They are going to catch up, they are going to kick Danarius’ head in, and then they will bring Fenris home. “Another?” he asks Isabela.

She lets out a bright laugh. “Best not wear yourself out before the main event,” she advises.

Hawke sighs but inclines his head; she’s right. He glances around the deck, not ready to go back to his cabin to sit and fret over the elf who _is fine_ , has to be fine, because Hawke can’t stand to believe otherwise. Varric is sitting towards the stern, facing into the wind, and Hawke heads in that direction. If he can’t distract himself with knives, maybe one of Varric’s outlandish stories will do the trick.

The shout from the crow’s nest stops him in his tracks.

“Shorten the sails!” Isabela yells, rushing past him to jump up onto the main mast’s shroud as the sailors on deck leap into action around her.

Captain Tremeer runs to stand with Hawke, squinting attentively up at the crow’s nest. Isabela has nearly reached it, and she trades places with one of the lookouts when she gets there. Tremeer watches for her signal as she peers off into the horizon. “They’re close – straight out from the harbour,” he observes, his gaze flickering down towards the low sun. “Only an hour ‘til nightfall. If we tuck in beside the cliffs the sun behind will make it harder to see us.” He shakes his head. “It’s dicey; Maker grant they’ve something happening aboard to keep them distracted.”

 

 

No one has come for Fenris except the slave girl Ria and the two guards that accompany her. Three times a day she gives him water, feeds him, empties the bucket in the corner. She has even brought a thin pallet and a blanket, even washed his face. In some ways, the kindness is unwelcome, unnerving; it signifies over and again that Danarius has something planned for him. And not knowing what leaves his mind to suggest all too many unpleasant possibilities.

He has barely slept, encumbered with collar and chains as he is and still roiling with grief and doubt. When he finally drifts off, he dreams of Hawke, laughing, touching him, groaning under him. Then distant, guarded, then callous and cold. Such dreams jolt him awake, feeling more exhausted than if he had never slept at all.

He has managed to force down another meal; his appetite remains non-existent, and every mouthful is a challenge. Ria places the empty bowl aside and straightens, her gaze flickering towards the door. As always, the guards have shut her inside, but they cannot be far. When she speaks, her voice is barely a whisper, her brows coming together anxiously over her dark eyes. “The Magister is preparing for something,” she mouths.

“For what?” He keeps his voice equally low.

“I don’t know, but there is a table and… and knives. And there is another prisoner, I think.” She is clearly frightened, her hands shaking like he hasn’t seen them since that first night, when they were shaking because of him.

He wishes he could reassure her, but there can be no reassurance for elven galley slaves when a Magister starts sharpening his knives.

His hands are still shackled before him, his wrists rubbed raw against the metal, but he reaches out awkwardly and takes her hand in his own. “Maker preserve us,” he whispers.

Her eyes are bright when she rises to leave.

It is not long before they come for him. The familiar pair of guards enter the cell, the lantern light less blinding when Ria has left so soon before. The sight of them sends cold anger flooding through him – slavers like so many he has killed before, arrogant and foolish in their belief he has been declawed without the power of the lyrium. As they move towards him, he leaps into them, smashing the coil of chain around his wrists into one man’s face as he kicks out hard towards the other’s legs. They both fall, pathetic as all their ilk, and blood is pouring from one’s face, and Fenris rounds on them with a snarl, raising his arms again over the second guard.

“ _Stop_.”

Fenris’ body locks up, and _agony_ tears through every silvery line on his skin as the collar’s enchantment fixes his frame in place. Even his eyes are frozen, and the spell has tinted his vision white. The guards in front of him struggle to their feet, and the one whose face is bloodied moves as if to draw his sword – but is thrown heavily back against the boards behind him and slides to the ground, dazed.

“Unwise,” Danarius’ voice murmurs from the threshold. Fenris cannot turn to look, but the sound brings a wave of pricking dread rushing up his body. “That is my property, spirited though he may be. _Follow_ ,” he commands. Fenris’ limbs move stiffly of their own accord, the collar controlling him like a puppet as it forces him to turn and walk after Danarius’ retreating back. They go up a set of dim steps and along a narrow corridor through the bowels of the ship, and finally reach an open area that must be near one end.

Damp, circular marks on the floor suggest it was until recently storage, but it is now fitted with an array of benches covered with books and devices and other trappings of magical research. In the centre of the space stands a broad wooden table; there are what look uncomfortably like metal restraints looping up through the surface. Three more robed mages are already there; two are in his peripheral vision, but a suggestion of red hair and pointed ears speak to the presence of his sister.

“Lie on the table,” Danarius commands, and Fenris cannot stop his body from obeying. Danarius gives a mirthless chuckle. “Ah, it is a delight to see you doing what you’re told once more. Just like old times.”

It is painful to lie flat against the collar; it presses hard into Fenris’ neck and upper back. His eyes are still fixed straight ahead, his vision glazed white, but he feels the movements as the restraints are fastened around his limbs.

“ _Release_ ,” Danarius says, and the forced tension goes out of Fenris’ body. Residual pain throbs through him, and his muscles feel like he has run miles rather than walked across a ship, but he grits his teeth to stifle a groan. Danarius approaches the table, smiling down at his prisoner. “And here we are again.”

Fenris meets Danarius’ eyes, scowling. “More rituals, Danarius?” he asks derisively. “Haven’t learned your lesson yet?”

Danarius smiles blandly, then a sudden flash of fury twists his features and he grabs one of Fenris’ ears, digging his sharp nails in as he pulls. “The word is _master_ ,” he grits, and then lets go, turning away from the table. “You will remember that soon enough.” Fenris hisses in breath through teeth clenched in pain. Danarius faces Varania, and it is definitely her, Fenris sees now. She glances at her brother with green eyes so similar to his own, and then looks up at Danarius.

“Tell them we are ready,” the Magister commands. “And have them bring the girl.”

She bows slightly and leaves the room, her feet tapping away on the wooden planks. Fenris can feel warm blood flowing down the curve of his ear and hears it drip onto the surface below him.

When Varania returns, she is accompanied by two guards dragging a dark-haired man between them. The captive is tall, with the build of a warrior, though his hair and clothes are filthy and unkempt and his face is drawn. There are dark shadows beneath his eyes. Over his worn clothing, he wears a black tabard emblazoned with a white eye surrounded by spikes.

“Seeker Ciaran, so good of you to join us,” Danarius says with a smile. “Here, at last, your task is before you.”

Fenris has heard the term ‘Seeker’ before, though he can’t remember exactly where. Perhaps from Hawke? The Seeker stares across at Fenris, shaking his head in disbelief.

“It will never work, Danarius,” Ciaran protests. His voice is hoarse, perhaps from long disuse. “There is too much lyrium – no one could survive that. We use it as torture, when we must… his heart will give out.”

“You’d be surprised at his endurance,” Danarius says dismissively. He runs his fingertips up Fenris’ arm, tracing the lyrium patterns idly. “Wouldn’t he, my pet? He was a great favourite of mine; all the more upsetting, really, that he has proved such a disappointment. I will tolerate no further risk of insolence.” His pale eyes are cold as he turns them towards Fenris’ face, his nails digging in to the lyrium lines on Fenris’ bicep and forcing a groan from the elf. “Property destroyed is always more palatable than property stolen.”

Fenris sets his jaw and holds Danarius’ gaze, refusing to give the magister the satisfaction of seeing the fear clawing at him.

“Defiant to the last,” Danarius continues, his voice dangerously soft. “But never fear. All those memories of Seheron and Kirkwall that have led you so badly astray – soon I will take them all away.”

Then Fenris hears a sound worse than any words Danarius could say. A broken sob and the drag of feet on the hallway, and Ria’s voice: “please, Master!”

He thrashes against the restraints, baring his teeth, his wrists and ankles instantly scraped to bleeding. There are tears running down Ria’s face as the guard drags her in by the hair, her feet scrabbling for purchase. She is hardly breathing, stricken with terror as she stares at Danarius. “No!” Fenris shouts. He can’t stop himself, though he knows this game, knows nothing will change anything. From the moment she came to the dark cabin he should have realised – she was being offered out for him to become attached to, just so Danarius could demonstrate his dominance. “Don’t do it,” Fenris grits. “Please... Master.”

Danarius smiles slightly, then turns to the guard holding Ria and nods. "Proceed."

The guard tugs her head back and runs a blade neatly across her throat. “No, damn you, no!” Fenris groans, arching against the metal bindings uselessly. Ria shudders, eyes going blank as blood gouts from the wound.

Danarius breathes deeply, and the air around him pulses red as he draws on Ria’s life essence. He holds his hands up above Fenris’ face, and the red mist swirls together to form an orb the colour of a fresh bruise, transparent and shifting like smoke, in his grasp. “You _will_ be my obedient little Fenris once more.” Smoky tendrils reach down from the orb towards Fenris' face as Danarius looks across at the Seeker. “Begin!”

At that moment, there is a hollow crashing sound, wood against wood, and the room _shakes_. For a moment Fenris thinks only he can feel it, that it is the Seeker’s doing, but there is the crash of vials breaking against the floor, and one of the mages falls heavily. Varania grabs onto the bench to stay upright. The guard holding Ria staggers and slips in the pool of her blood, dropping her lifeless body to the floor.

Danarius throws his hands down against the table to stop himself from falling; he has lost the thread of the spell, and the orb disappates into the air. He slams his fist on the table beside Fenris’ face. “Who dares interfere?” he demands, lightning crackling over his form as his magic reacts to his rage. A scream floats down the hall from the deck above, followed by the metallic ring of clashing weapons. He strides towards the hallway. “A slave wasted… students! Time to practice your battle magic!” The apprentices hurry to follow him, and Danarius spins to point at the two guards who brought the Seeker: “Ensure the prisoner is kept under control until we return.”

“My lord,” one of the guards replies, straightening. The other grabs Ciaran at the curve between his neck and shoulder, pushing him down to kneel on the ground. He draws his sword with a loud scrape, holding the point against the Seeker’s back. “Just sit tight,” he says firmly.

Another loud scrape from the wall, and a tremble runs through the room again – both guards look in the direction of the noise.

Ciaran moves so fast even Fenris is startled; the Seeker turns and grabs the arms of the guard holding a sword on him, pushing up on one knee. Tendons straining in his neck, Ciaran flips the guard forward and throws him against the table hard enough that Fenris feels the heavy wood shift. The Seeker straightens, now holding the sword that had been at his back, and doesn’t even hesitate as he takes one step towards the guard still standing and drives the blade through his chest. He wrenches the sword free and turns back to where the other guard is still gasping for breath on the ground; Fenris doesn’t see what happens, but there is a wet rasp and the breathing stops.

Ciaran stands very still for a moment, then he mutters: “ _You_ sit tight.”

For a moment, Fenris is vividly – painfully – reminded of Hawke. Not just the comment, but the accent along with it. “You are Ferelden?”

Ciaran turns to the table, dropping to his haunches, and begins working on the restraints holding Fenris. “Yes – I am a Seeker of Truth,” he explains. He manages to open the metal loop fixing one of Fenris’ wrists, freeing the arm. Fenris pushes down with his elbow and levers his upper body away from the table, easing the pressure of the collar.

Fenris remembers where he heard the term now; not from Hawke, in fact, but from Anders. He’d said something about it being a shame the Seekers of Truth didn’t have a presence in Kirkwall – that they would soon see to Meredith. “I have heard the name, but know little of them,” he admits.

“Our main duty is to supervise the Templar order, to make sure they don’t abuse their power.” The binding on Fenris’ other wrist goes slack, and he manages to sit up as Ciaran straightens to move around the table. “But I have an ability that is… rare, even among Seekers,” Ciaran explains. “I can make the lyrium in a body burn.” There is a slam, and the table shifts slightly again; Fenris is fairly sure Ciaran just punched it. “To use that on you would be nothing short of monstrous,” the Seeker says, his disgust audible. “But that snake knows about my daughter – my grandson.”

“He’s been using them as leverage,” Fenris surmises. He looks down at his wrists; they are ringed with scrapes and oozing blood.

One leg is freed, and Ciaran shuffles across to the other. “Yes, Void take him. Though for all I know their fate is already sealed.” The last binding slackens, and Fenris scrambles off the table. He turns his back on it and takes a few deep, steadying breaths. Being tortured to death sounds little better than becoming Danarius’ trusting puppet, laddered with fresh burn scars; the interruption from above has quite literally saved his skin, either way. He kneels down beside Ria's lifeless body, closing her eyes gently. "I'm sorry," he murmurs.

“Elf,” Ciaran calls. When Fenris stands, the Seeker extends the second guard’s shortsword, hilt first. The sounds of battle still drift down from the deck above them, and a sudden explosion shakes the timbers of the ship. “The way I see it, this is the best chance for both of us. Let’s find that mage bastard.”

Fenris takes the offered weapon; it feels good in his hand, even if it's not his habitual greatsword. It feels like he has a hold of his own fate once more. He nods grimly and moves towards the hallway. “Let’s go.”


	9. Avenged

As the ships crash into contact, grappling hooks sail across the gap to snarl in the web of lines angling down from the galleon’s bowspirit mast. In moments, a web of ropes lashes the two ships together, and two long boards provide a makeshift bridge; the Kirkwall sailors swarm up and over the bow of the larger ship as Hawke, Varric and the mages provide cover from the quarterdeck. “Surrender!” shouts Captain Tremeer as the posted guards approach, weapons drawn. “Our quarrel is with the Magister!”

“Die!” one of them yells in response, raising his sword to swing at Tremeer – Aveline leaps forward, bringing her shield up hard to repel the blow. The guard staggers backwards and then stops short, eyes wide, and falls; there are two bloody dagger-wounds in his back. “And so you did!” Isabela sing-songs, spinning away to join the growing fray.

It is a massacre; the Tevinters spill out onto the moonlit deck rag-tag, half of them without their armour, expecting a skirmish with pirates. Instead they meet the organised force of the Kirkwall Navy, cutting them down with grisly efficiency. In the blooming light from Anders’ and Merrill’s spells, Hawke’s arrows find one target after another. He’s got another on the string, wincing as he aims, when he sees the robed figures emerge from below decks. One of them raises an arm and a massive ball of lightning smashes into a nearby sailor, burning through him and arcing to three more; all of the men drop, as the storm of sparks ignite the rigging beside them. Fire races up the ropes towards the sails.

“On the mages!” Hawke yells. The mage who had attacked is already crackling with more lightning; Hawke looses his shot, and it tears straight through the mage’s arm and thuds dully into the deck behind him. The mage staggers, head snapping around to look straight at Hawke; he doesn’t recognise the man, grey-haired and snarling with rage, but he knows exactly who it must be – Danarius. Fenris’ former master raises his good arm.

“Move!” Hawke shouts at the others, already running himself. He takes two leaping steps forward and up onto the quarterdeck railing, then hurls himself across the gap between the two ships just as another mass of electricity detonates behind him. He manages to catch onto one of the ropes anchoring the furled bowspirit, momentum dragging him forward; he lets go and drops to the galleon’s deck. He stares around himself for a moment, feeling the crackle of static in his hair, slightly amazed he isn’t in the ocean.

“Hawke, that is definitely going in my book!” Varric crows from somewhere behind him.

Hawke glances back quickly to check on Merrill and Anders, but from this angle he can’t see where they are and there’s no time to stop. At least the Viscount’s ship doesn’t appear to be burning yet. Grimly, he yanks his knives from his leg-sheaths and heads up the galleon’s deck at a run.

When Danarius sees Hawke coming at him, daggers held low, face intent, the mage shouts an unintelligible phrase that makes the air feel _wrong_. The blood pouring from his arm spreads into a lace-like pattern of glowing red threads, extending over his skin. Shades burst out of the deck of the galleon, their talons leaving gouges in the wood as they claw their way through from the Fade. One lunges at Hawke but he dodges and counterattacks, using the same double slash he and Isabela had practiced earlier to cut the thing down. The rest of the shades rush at the men still locked in battle around them, heedless of whether their targets are Marchers or Tevinter. In the orange light from the burning sails above, embers floating down all around them, the scene is like something out of a nightmare.

One of Danarius’ fellow mages raises his belt knife over his own arm, but just as he is about to cut a stream of flowing ice engulfs him, leaving him frozen mid-gesture – Anders at least is still up and casting somewhere. Another of the mages backs away towards the ship railing, raising his hand palm-up towards Hawke; suddenly his eyes go blank and he sways where he stands, paralyzed. He tilts precariously, hits the railing behind him and pitches overboard. “Oh, I got one!” Merrill’s voice calls.

Hawke hears Danarius’ shout of frustration, and he _feels_ rather than sees the rage demon boiling up out of the deck beside him; the wall of heat and the sting of burning ash. He scrambles out of the way just as the demon fully emerges, a living, roaring mass of molten rock and flame, scorching the timbers beneath it. It advances on him, and Hawke backs away; his daggers won’t do much here, if he can even stab it without igniting his own hands. Then a crossbow bolt strikes the thing square in the side of its snout-like face, breaking the surface open so that pure flame pours out. The demon rears back, screeching, and turns in the direction of the bolt. Lieutenant Alwin drops the crossbow, snatching a brutal-looking battle axe from his back. “Come on, then!” he invites the demon.

Hawke’s eyes are already back on Danarius; he feints left as he advances, and sprints right as soon as the next spell leaves the mage’s hand, dodging it neatly. He closes the gap in a few long steps and leaps; Danarius throws up a desperate arcane barrier at the very last instant, and Hawke strikes against it hard and falls. He rolls back to his feet, circling as he shakes off the contact.

“You,” Danarius spits from behind his flickering barrier, bead-like droplets of his own blood rolling over the skin of his arms and face. “Why couldn’t you just _die_ like a good boy?”

“I was never very good at doing what I was told,” Hawke returns. He lunges forward, slashing the barrier; it sends a bone-jarring shock up through his arm, but the curved wall of magic flickers, fading out briefly before it solidifies once more. Hawke grits his teeth, tightening his grip on the daggers, and presses in again. There is sweat on Danarius’ face as well as the blood; all those lightning spells and shades have taken their toll. Hawke sweeps his daggers down and drives them point first into the barrier as Danarius staggers backwards: this time the spell evaporates, flickering out of existence. Faster than Danarius can blink, Hawke flicks the daggers around to point up towards the mage, and _strikes_ –

“NO!”

A wall of force smashes into Hawke like a cannon blast, and he’s airborne, hurled backwards twenty feet to smash against the far deck railing. There’s another mage, he realises dazedly; a third apprentice. He tries to get his feet back under him, but there’s no air in his lungs and his legs won’t cooperate. He opens his mouth to call for help, for healing, something, but he can’t get in breath enough to make a sound. Even if he could, there is no one to help: Alwin still battles the rage demon further back along the deck, and the last of the shades and Tevinter guards are keeping the rest of the sailors in view busy. He can’t see Isabela or Aveline anywhere.

The apprentice stares at him coldly, breathing hard; she is a red-haired elf, her face somehow familiar. She turns back to Danarius and bows. “He is yours, by rights, my lord.”

Danarius smiles cruelly as raises his arm once more, and a crackling spear of lightning, tinted red, grows in the palm of his hand. “So much for the Champion of Kirkwall.”

There is nothing more that Hawke can do. He lets his eyes flutter closed, gasping for each shallow breath. _Sorry, Fenris_ , he thinks.

The unmistakable sound of metal slicing through flesh and Danarius’ wet gasp reaches his ears.

Danarius looks down slowly, his eyes widening, at the blood-painted sword protruding from the middle of his chest.

Beside him, his apprentice screams, stumbling backwards with her hands to her mouth. But a battered-looking man in a black tabard is standing behind her, like a spectre of death itself. He swings his sword two-handed, and it bites deep into her neck. As he wrenches it free, stepping back, blood sprays from the wound and she falls without another sound.

Danarius staggers forward and free of the sword blade pinioning him. He drops to his knees, still staring down at the wound that has claimed his life.

Behind him, sword in hand, a strange metal collar wrapped around his throat, stands Fenris.

He stares down at his former master for a long moment, watching as Danarius dies choking on his own blood. Then he looks up, his face a strange mix of triumph and anger and regret, and sees Hawke.

The sword clatters to the deck.

Hawke still can’t draw breath enough to speak; he definitely has some broken ribs, and he’s not sure if both lungs have survived intact either. Fenris’ wrists and ankles are bloody, and a patch of his white hair is wet with it, and the bulky collar is tethered to his body by chains that wrap under his arms and have rubbed the skin raw – but he looks whole, sound, himself. Hawke is so relieved he could cry.

He drags in a shuddering breath, and realises that in fact he _is_ crying.

The battle further along the ship is finally winding down, and Isabela and Aveline come racing towards them; Aveline runs with a limp, an open gash above one knee. A slightly singed but triumphant Lieutenant Alwin follows close behind. “Fenris!” Isabela yells with delight, and snatches him into a hard hug. He doesn’t even seem to register her presence, still staring in obvious shock at Hawke.

Aveline does a double-take at the sight of the man in the black tabard. “A… Seeker?” she asks in confusion. The man bows slightly, and now Hawke can see the slightly-bloodied white sigil on the front of the garment. Then Aveline notices Hawke: “Oh, Maker!”

He thinks about wiping the tears from his face, but finds he doesn’t quite have the energy for more than sitting right now. He’s getting quite light-headed, in fact, since he still can’t breathe properly – but he refuses to pass out again. Fenris is here, and all right. Surely that’s enough to sustain him even without air.

Isabela pulls away from Fenris to look in Hawke’s direction. “Shit.” She chews her lower lip worriedly as she approaches. “I’ll find Anders, shall I?”

The Lieutenant shakes his head, glancing behind them. “We can’t do anything here. I don’t give that foremast long; the sails are almost gone. Plus it would be preferable if our ship didn’t also catch fire, and that’s hard to avoid when we’re lashed on.” He looks to the Seeker. “I assume you’re on our side?”

The black-clad man barks out a laugh. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend, so it goes.”

“Fair enough. Well then, could you help me get the Champion back to our ship?”

“Wait,” Fenris says, seeming to come back to himself; he tears his eyes from Hawke and back to Danarius. He crouches down beside the bloodied corpse and rifles through the dead mage’s ruined robe, bringing out what looks like the hilt of a sword, the pommel glowing with lyrium. As he goes to stand, he hesitates; he’s looking at the apprentice lying dead beside her master, her shining hair nearly as red as the huge bloodstain spreading over her robe. But Fenris just clenches his teeth and turns his face aside; he straightens, nodding to Lieutenant Alwin and following Isabela towards the brigantine.

When the Lieutenant and Seeker pull Hawke up to his feet, the pain is so bad his vision goes momentarily black. He’s thankful for a minute that he can’t get in air enough to scream. His legs aren’t cooperating properly, either, but Alwin and the Seeker are strong enough to all but carry him between them back down the ship to the gangplank.

Captain Tremeer rushes up from below decks as they pass, leading a group of frightened-looking elves and a few humans. “Slaves,” he explains with a sigh as they continue on towards their ship. “Never get used to it. Some of the crew weren’t in the Magister’s employ, either; they surrendered when we got down there. We’ll have to turn the main deck into a sleep-out for a night or two, but we can hardly leave them here.”

They hasten across the makeshift bridge to the brigantine, as some of the Kirkwall sailors work on cutting the ropes connecting them to the burning galleon. Alwin and the Seeker have to fully carry Hawke to navigate the gangplank; a strangled groan escapes him when Alwin lifts his upper body, and every step they take is agony. Hawke feels like his spine is coming apart.

Anders rushes to intercept them as they step off the gangplank. There is a sooty streak across the mage’s face, and one feathery pauldron is blackened. “Put him down, please!” he sputters, obviously flustered. Blue magic flickers into life around his hands as they obey, setting him right beside the railing as the sailors pull back the boards. Behind Anders’ frowning face, Hawke sees the flaming sails of the other ship begin to drift away as all the tie-lines are finally cut.

The air comes back into his lungs as Anders’ spell flows through him, and he gasps in great lungfuls in relief. “Lie still,” Anders admonishes him, his eyes half-closed as he concentrates.

“I didn’t pass out this time,” Hawke says rather proudly, his voice rasping.

“You’d have been better served if you did,” Anders mutters. “Your _back_ is broken, Hawke – a half dozen broken ribs, collapsed lung. Andraste, what did you _do_?” As he speaks waves of light pulse through and around Hawke’s body.

“I… got Fenris back,” Hawke says slowly. He cranes his neck up, trying to look around; with Fenris out of sight, it feels strangely unreal. As they move away from the burning ship, the deck is growing dark again – two of the sailors are working on getting the few lanterns lit, and Anders casts enough light for several lanterns, but it’s still hard to make out faces in the gloom. “Where is he?”

Anders shoves him back flat, this time brooking no argument. “I am serious, Hawke. Do. Not. Move. Broken back, remember?” But he looks around, and when he responds his tone is hushed. “Isabela and Aveline are talking with him. Well… at him. For your sake, Hawke, I hope they are being convincing.” He pauses. “I don’t know how easy I’d be to win over if I saw you hand me back to the Circle.” He screws up his face in distaste, and Hawke can’t tell if it’s the idea of returning to the Circle, or admitting to sympathising with Fenris.

As the brigantine slowly turns away, the foremast on the burning galleon behind them collapses, sending a great plume of flame and sparks into the air. It flares like a beacon in the darkness.

Anders drifts into meditative silence as he digs deeper into his mana. Eventually, the spell fades out as he sits back, sighing. After a moment, he climbs wearily to his feet; he stumbles slightly and has to steady himself against the railing, but eventually he’s standing unsupported. “That’s as far as magic will get you. The ribs and lung are fairly standard fare, but your back will stay pretty sore for a few days,” he explains. “You’ll need to be careful; no running and definitely no fighting for at least a week.”

Hawke manages to sit up, wincing at the deep-seated ache through his middle back. He looks at the healer standing beside him, thoughtfully. It feels like this adventure away from Kirkwall has brought back some of the old Anders, whose life wasn’t so completely consumed with the Mage Rebellion. “Thanks, for everything,” he says quietly. “I’m lucky to have you, you know that.”

A flush spreads, and turns his face away. “I… appreciate it,” he mutters. He glances back, managing a half smile. “For the record – you could have had me anytime.” He walks off towards the stern of the ship, disappearing into the darkness. Hawke stares after him for a moment, then grins and shakes his head.

He looks for Fenris then, unable to stop himself a moment longer. He sees the Seeker, first: he stands at the railing nearby, watching the burning ship drift further away. Vermeer and Alwin are quietly discussing the battle, while their sailors set up around them to accommodate the new arrivals.

Finally, Hawke sees Fenris, and feels that same wave of relief wash over him. The elf sits against the mast of the ship, his knees bent and his arms resting lightly on top of them, looking around at a knot of Hawke’s inner circle; Isabela, Aveline, Varric and Merrill. Merrill kneels beside him, inspecting the heavy runed collar that wraps around Fenris’ neck and upper chest. She holds the metal rod that Fenris took from Danarius’ body, turning it over and over in her slender fingers. Fenris is looking up at Isabela, his expression doubtful and his lips tightened to a thin line. She shrugs and gestures to Hawke, saying something he can’t hear from his post. Fenris glances up and meets Hawke’s gaze just for a moment, and then quickly averts his eyes.

Hawke can’t stand it. He slowly pulls himself up, and hobbles across to the group.

Merrill scrambles to her feet. “Hawke!” she bursts out. “That’s it, I think. I don’t think it’s a particular word, at all.” She extends the rod to him. “I think it just has to be the ‘master’ who opens it. The, ah… what’s the Qunari word for it, Fenris?”

“Aarvarad,” Fenris supplies, without lifting his head.

“What?” Hawke asks, completely lost.

“It’s a control collar, like the Qunari use to bind mages – remember Ketojan?” She extends the rod a little further with a satisfied nod. “This has to be the answer.”

“And I’m supposed to be Fenris’ master?” Hawke asks slowly, startled at the idea. Beside him, Varric grimaces openly. Aveline, standing beside Fenris with her shoulder against the mast of the ship, sighs and glares sharply at Merrill.

Merrill hesitates. “Well, you definitely…” she trails off, staring up at Hawke in dawning realisation. “Oh, I said the wrong thing, didn’t I?”

Hawke gently takes her wrist, turning her arm down so that the rod is being held out to Fenris, who finally faces him. His expression is mutinous; Hawke suddenly wonders if this is part of why Fenris never came back to him all this time. “There can be no debate about it now, surely. Fenris is his own master. He chooses to follow me, or,” he chokes up slightly again, coughing to cover it. “Or not.”

Fenris looks surprised, but he reaches out to take the metal device carefully. He looks dubious as he holds it out in front of him, but stands up and straightens to his full height. “ _Open_ ,” he says firmly.

There is an audible click, and the blue of the lyrium runes in the collar slowly fades. The chains connecting to the front of it drop away to clatter against the wooden deck either side of Fenris, who almost drops the rod in astonishment. He brings his hands up to grasp the band around his neck. When he pulls, the back splits open and it comes away in his hands.

Fenris stares at the collar for a long moment. Then he takes three long strides towards the ship’s railing and casts it and the rod into the sea.

When he turns, his eyes find Hawke’s immediately, and now the exultation in them isn’t tempered by anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PHEW. That was a marathon to write!  
> As always error-checking is very welcome!  
> Stay tuned for epilogue and very possibly a rating bump~


	10. United

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay - there are two versions of this chapter. I'm going to keep the M rating over here because a) someone already reading might not be comfortable with smut and b) I wasn't actually 100% sure smut felt 'right' in the context of this whole story. So, this chapter is the tame version. There is also a VERY E rated version. which is here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/8077687
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH, by the way, for reading! I am so glad to hear people are enjoying it, and I'm super grateful for the comments and kudos. You guys are amazing.
> 
> ETA: Oops, I somehow missed the last four lines when I originally posted this. Fixed, now! Apologies to anyone who read it and was like *blink* ^^;;

A week later, Fenris walks back through Lowtown. Ciaran’s boat has left without incident, taking the Seeker back towards Ferelden. It is strange to think it of someone who was intended to main or kill him, but Fenris is sorry to see the man go.

He is not, however, sorry to leave the Docks once more. It’s never been Fenris’ favourite place, with its reek of rotting fish and floating garbage, but he dislikes it more than ever now: he’ll probably never be able to retrace those steps without remembering being led there by Danarius, already collared and chained, still dazed from the shock of Hawke’s betrayal.

Except Hawke didn’t betray him. He’s heard all the tale now, of course; Varric would hardly let it remain otherwise. Hawke waking in the nick of time in the forest, beating off a band of murderous thugs, making his way back home only to find it claimed by a demon wearing his own face. Killing it, and nearly dying in the process. Commandeering a ship, chasing down Danarius, barely escaping death again. It all sounds like a fanciful adventure story – which was so much more like Hawke than the role of traitor that Fenris had no trouble believing it was all true, even right from the beginning. And using Fenris’ greatest ally against him – well, that sounded all too much like Danarius as well.

Fenris stops outside the Hanged Man, squinting up at the second floor. Hawke will be there, he knows. Bodahn had already arranged repairs to the Estate by the time they returned – but enough panels and tiles and furniture needed replacing that the house wasn’t really yet habitable. Aveline and Donnic had been out of room, but Varric had been more than happy to put Hawke up in his favourite tavern. Fenris suspects the dwarf is more worried than he makes out about his best friend’s recent habit of almost dying, and doesn’t mind keeping him a bit closer at hand for a time.

Honestly, a big part of Fenris wants to do the same. It had been hard initially to see Hawke, until he processed everything that had happened. They hadn’t spoken much on the ship. And it obviously hurt Hawke to be kept at arm’s length, but it hurt Fenris to be near him and remember that expression of impatient disdain… one he knew now he had never truly seen on Hawke’s face, but that made it no easier to banish the image from his mind. And when the uneasiness did start to fade, mollified by Hawke’s easy regard and obvious relief at seeing him safe, he felt ashamed of having heaped more distress onto the man after everything he had been through. Fenris felt unworthy, and vulnerable, and fiercely protective. He felt _too much_ again, as always around Hawke.

Fenris grits his teeth, frustrated with himself. No. Enough. What he really feels, most of all? Has never changed, not once. Even when he thought Hawke had betrayed him, it couldn’t blot out what Fenris felt – feels. And it is time to be brave.

He goes into the Hanged Man, weaving through the noisy late-afternoon crowd, and makes his way up the stairs. Hawke has taken a smaller room, beside Varric’s suite; the door stands slightly ajar, and Fenris peers in through it.

Hawke is lying on the bed on his stomach, one arm folded beneath his head, his face turned away. He is wearing only his breeches, and Fenris takes in the hard planes of his back, the light skin marked with the occasional pale scar. Hawke’s body is perfect; slim-hipped, broad-shouldered, lithe and densely muscular. A wave of _want_ hits Fenris and any misgivings he had are instantly forgotten. He opens the door and slips through, closing it behind him.

 

Hawke has been tired ever since returning, and has been spending a lot of his time holed up at the Hanged Man dozing. At the moment, though, he’s not really asleep – he’s thinking about Fenris, remembering that one time, years ago, when Fenris was his. The arch of Fenris’ back, the feel of his hips beneath Hawke’s hands, his open mouth panting hot breath against Hawke’s shoulder. Hawke is half-hard, pressed against the mattress below him. He is just thinking about flipping over so he can take care of it when he hears the low murmur of Fenris’ voice near his ear – “Are you awake?” – and feels Fenris’ weight settle on the side of the bed, his leg against Hawke’s.

Hawke lies perfectly still for a moment, trying to decide if he has actually fallen asleep. “Fenris, are you on my bed, or am I dreaming?”

There’s a throaty chuckle, slightly hesitant. “I am here.”

Hawke turns his head. Fenris is watching Hawke with a thoughtful expression. His gauntlets lie on the low chest near the door, and the lyrium etched on his flesh is even more confronting without them; both sides of his hands are marked, the white lines like tracings of the bones beneath drawn on his skin. “Is everything all right?” Hawke asks, worried at once. Fenris has been, not exactly avoiding him, but at least avoiding being alone with him.

“We need to talk, properly,” Fenris begins slowly. “It is not only what happened with Danarius. It has been… different between us for much longer.” He picks at a speck of lint on the blanket, quiet for a few breaths. At length he says: “We have never discussed what happened between us three years ago.”

Hawke inhales slowly, thinking fast. There are so many ways this conversation could end badly. “You didn’t want to talk about it,” he says carefully.

Fenris sighs, bending to rest his elbows on his knees. “I felt like a fool. I thought it better if you hated me – I deserved no less.” He frowns at the floorboards as he speaks. “But it isn’t better. That night…” his expression changes as he glances back at Hawke, becoming intent; there is regret in it, and _longing_ , and Hawke’s chest suddenly feels tight. “I remember your touch as if it were yesterday,” Fenris admits.

He pushes off the bed to standing, and Hawke fights the urge to grab him and pull him back. “I should have asked your forgiveness long ago,” Fenris says firmly, turning to look Hawke in the eye. “I hope you can forgive me now.”

Hawke sits up carefully; his back is still not completely cooperating. “I understand,” he says simply. Uncertainly flickers across Fenris’ face, and Hawke gives a tiny shrug. “I always understood.”

Fenris is still for a moment, not looking completely convinced that he could be understanding correctly. Then he steps closer, taking Hawke’s hand. “If there is a future to be had,” he says, voice low and throaty, “I will walk into it gladly at your side.”

Hawke surges to his feet, heedless of his body’s protest – Fenris’ hand goes to the back of Hawke’s head, pulling him down into a desperate kiss; Hawke drags in breath through his nose as his hands wrap around Fenris’ back, crushing the elf to him as Fenris’ lips part under his. The edge of Fenris’ steel breastplate jabs into him, but Hawke is too preoccupied with Fenris’ mouth and the warm, firm body beneath his hands to even notice.

Fenris lets out a little hum of pleasure as he tilts his head, his tongue finding Hawke’s, and the sound sinks straight through Hawke’s body to his groin; he is already hard again. Fenris’ thigh presses between Hawke’s legs, shifting as he adjusts his weight to mould himself into their kiss; one hand trails around Hawke’s lower back and hip and starts to slide downwards.

Hawke breaks away, shaking his head, and the elf’s hand freezes in place. Fenris stares at him, lips still parted, his colour high. Hawke struggles for the right words: “Are you – I don’t want to… last time it…” He grunts in frustration and drags his other hand back through his hair. “We don’t have to do more than you want to,” he tries, and then finds once he’s started he can’t stop: “We don’t have to rush things. I… love you, and I have for a long time and I want you so bloody much, but you said it hurt you, last time. I don’t _want_ to hurt you, and I get the sense there’s no real way… not to.” Hawke shakes his head at his own idiocy and places his hands gently on Fenris’ shoulders, rubbing small circles with his thumbs against the unmarked flesh on Fenris’ clavicles.  
Fenris lets out a shuddering breath, as though he’s been holding it. “Say it again.”

Hawke frowns, confused. “That I don’t want to hurt you?”

“No… the… the other part.”

“Ah.” Hawke lifts his hands further, linking them gently behind Fenris’ neck. His voice is soft and serious: “I love you.”

“I… love you, as well,” Fenris murmurs, as his flush deepens even more. He clears his throat, lifting his head. “And you’re right that the markings will probably hurt. But trust me, Hawke, I want this just as much as you do.” He lowers his eyes, frowning slightly. “Actually, I have… similar concerns.”

Hawke raises his eyebrows.

“Your back. And those wounds.” Fenris reaches out to lay his hand carefully over the side of Hawke’s stomach. The gouges are still healing, still too slowly for Hawke’s liking; they were aggravated by the battle on the ship and have only just stopped oozing again. His spine is still tender, too, and likes to send shocks of sharp, buzzing pain through him when he moves the wrong way.

None of which is anything like enough to put him off, not when he’s finally being offered what he’s craved for three years.

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” Hawke declares, bending down for another kiss. It is gentler this time, at first, but the heat of it builds rapidly.

 

Varric jogs up the steps of the Hanged Man; it’s been a busy day, and he has in mind that a couple of beers and a game of Wicked Grace with whoever of the crew he and Hawke could round up would be a good way to finish it.

He strolls along the corridor, humming softly to himself, and is just about to knock on Hawke’s door when he hears… something.

Varric waits for a moment, listening hard, then starts back as though scalded. His face feels so hot it may as well have been.

Well, then. Isabela was right; only a matter of time, after all.

He heads back towards the stairs, grinning a little to himself. Perhaps she would still fancy a game – somewhere far out of earshot.

 

Three months later, Hawke trudges along the side of the Wycome Highway. The sky overhead is mottled grey and threatening rain, and he pulls up the hood of his cloak more firmly.

Everything in Kirkwall had gone sour again pretty rapidly after the triumph of Danarius’ defeat – soon Hawke had been up to his ears in the tensions between mages and templars, being forced to act as mediator where the Grand Cleric would not. Anders had quickly returned to his usual obsessions, and in the end…

Hawke shakes his head, sighing, seeing again in his mind’s eye the unnatural beams of red light splitting out through the Chantry walls before the whole thing detonated apart.

He didn’t have the heart to kill the mage; even if he had wanted to, he owed Anders too much. The mage had committed a desperate and terrible act, but Hawke would not – could not – be his executioner. Fenris himself hadn’t quite understood, but he had accepted Hawke’s decision. He had stood with the mages, and with Hawke, against his every instinct.

Hawke glances behind him to see a dark-cloaked figure striding up the road.

Hawke smiles. “Fenris,” he calls softly. As the elf approaches, Hawke snatches him in to a tight embrace, taking care not to snag himself on the sharp edge of Fenris’ greatsword.

“What’s wrong?” Fenris asks, his voice slightly muffled by Hawke’s shoulder.

“Just – glad to have you with me.” Hawke flexes his arms, squeezing the elf even tighter, and Fenris grunts in protest. Hawke releases him and steps back, scanning the area around the road. “Did you find anything?”

“No signs of Exalted Marches,” Fenris says dryly. “No chantry presence at all, I can see. There’s a Dalish clan in the area though, I found aravel tracks. We’ll have to tread carefully.”

Hawke looks up at the sky. “We should probably look for some cover,” he suggests. “The sun won’t be up much longer anyway.”

They have scarcely gone a hundred yards beyond the road when a Dalish elf steps out from the trees nearby. He is slight, and looks no older than twenty, with red hair braided down one side and sharp grey eyes. There is a bow strapped to his back, but he makes no move to draw it.

“Andaran atish’an, strangers,” he says, bowing slightly. His accent is different from the Dalish of the Sabrae clan, closer to that of Kirkwall humans. “I apologise for waylaying you – but my clan is camped nearby, and I must make sure you wish no harm to them.”

“We do not,” Fenris says slowly, his hand hovering at his shoulder beside the hilt of his greatsword.

Hawke tilts his head, surveying the red-haired elf. “You seem unusually… congenial, for a Dalish elf,” Hawke observes.

“I am Clan Lavellan. Our Keeper sees little use for the hostility to outsiders most expect of us. We often travel to Wycome to trade.”

Hawke nods. “Your Keeper sounds wise.”

The red-haired elf nods. “She is.” He blinks at Hawke, a faintly puzzled expression crossing his face.

“We will be going, then. We have no wish to intrude,” Fenris says, nodding to the other elf shortly and turning back towards the road.

Hawke smiles and gives a brief wave to the Lavellan elf, who still looks a little disquieted but manages a small smile and another bow. “Dareth shiral,” the elf says softly, as Hawke turns to follow Fenris. “Somehow, I feel we may meet again.”

When Hawke looks back, he is already gone. Hawke pauses for a moment, frowning at the spot where the Dalish had stood, then he shrugs.

He walks on, jogging to catch up with Fenris.


End file.
